A Rose By Any Other Name Would Smell As Sweet
by ToryTigress92
Summary: The tragic story of Anne and d'Artagnan. Starts in the year 1639, 2 years before the birth of the twins and continues until d'Artagnan leaves for war. Love and angst abound in this prequel to Man In The Iron Mask. R&R!
1. Chapter 1

A Rose By Any Other Name Would Still Smell As Sweet

* * *

_1662, the Court of Versailles, Paris_

"_Mother?" Anne turned from her lover's grave, to gaze into the eyes of her son. Her darling son, whom had been stolen from her, and imprisoned, by his own twin brother, and now had been restored to his birthright. She blinked back the fresh tears that still threatened to fall, staring into the same compassionate yet piercing eyes that D'Artagnan had possessed. The eyes that had captured her heart and soul. In that moment, Anne was grateful for the mourning veil she wore, since her usual veil of serenity had been torn away with the news of her beloved's death._

"_Yes, my son?" she asked as she turned to him, the silken black skirts of her gown swishing with the movement. He held out his arm, and Anne took it. In the lane that ran through the woods back to Versailles, the Musketeers waited, Aramis, Athos and Porthos watching the King and the Queen Mother with world weary eyes. D'Artagnan's death had taken its toll upon them all. Anne took one final look at the marble plaque glimmering in the early summer sunlight, the red rose she had laid over its surface scarlet against the white._

_Goodbye, D'Artagnan…_

"_Mother….." Philippe started again, as they walked slowly down the leafy avenue back to their awaiting horses._

"_Yes my son, what is it?" Anne repeated stopping and turning back to him._

"_I realise how close you were to Fa-D'Artagnan. And I am grieved, both by my own loss and yours…." He trailed off, his 'Louis' manner falling once they were beyond earshot of the Musketeers. They had agreed with Aramis that it would be best for Philippe to continue the charade for a little longer. Anne noted the slip up, when he had nearly named D'Artagnan as 'Father'. How she wished it could have been acknowledged so! "Mother, I know that D'Artagnan was my father, and that he told me so before his death, but I wish-I wish I could know the whole story. I know that Aramis, Athos and Porthos would wish to know also, and yet I hesitate to ask you. I don't want to intrude or to cause you pain, or…."_

"_Philippe, my son. I know what you ask. If you so wish it, I will tell you our story," Anne interrupted, placing a gloved hand on his smooth cheek. She thought for a moment, and then nodded decisively. "Come to my rooms tonight. Bid Aramis, Porthos and Athos to join us there. And you shall find out our story," _

"_Thank you, Mother," Philippe turned to mount his horse. As he swung into the saddle, Anne felt a flash of sadness. He looked so much like his father on horseback._

"_Oh, my son. Your father would be so proud of you, if he could see you now. The King he always dreamed you'd become," she smiled through her tears._

* * *

_Later that night….._

_Anne settled herself in the chair before the fire in her rooms, and slowly raised her eyes to the four men who sat opposite. Her dear son and her most trusted friends. She took a deep, shuddering breath._

"_Before I begin, I want you to know….I loved D'Artagnan with all my heart and soul. He was the light in the tunnel of misery that my marriage brought me. Do not misunderstand me; Louis was a kind enough husband, but our bed was barren. He married me for the alliance with my father and with Austria. Eventually I despaired of ever finding the love I so desperately craved, nor the child I desired. I remember when I first met you three," she inclined her head to the three musketeers, "The famous Musketeers. And then there was young D'Artagnan. He was so handsome, full of vigour and life. I could not forget him, even if I had never seen him after that day. I remember, after that attempt on Louis's life, you were assigned to be my personal guard. And, slowly but surely, as my days were no longer passed in loneliness but in suffocation by my husband's guards, my feelings for D'Artagnan grew. I mistook them for animosity, for frustration at being so sequestered, and then that all changed. It was in the August of 1639, the day I went riding, accompanied as always by my husband's guards. Aramis and D'Artagnan. It was a hot summer's day and I was determined to ride out, as had been my habit for so long, but a thunderstorm was drawing ever closer. D'Artagnan and Aramis tried to dissuade me, but I refused….."_

"_Quite vehemently, if I recall correctly," Aramis interjected with a reminiscent smile. Anne sent him a fond one back._

"_It was quite an argument," Anne conceded, "Well, where was I?"_

* * *

_1639, The King's country estate, The Somme valley_

"Your Majesty! I must insist you do not go out today! With the thunderstorm drawing closer, riding today is suicide!"

The young Anne rolled her eyes as she swept down the stable block towards her waiting horse, the skirts of her emerald green riding habit swirling around her booted feet. Her long raven black curls hung loose down her back, a riding cap planted jauntily amongst the trailing curls. She ignored the protests from the men who followed her doggedly. Her lapdogs, she called them in moments of private irritation. Always barking at her skirts.

In her heart she knew they only cared for her protection, but her stubborn mind and sense of independence refused to concede gracefully. She mounted the frisky black that awaited her, not even looking down at the two men who stood by her stirrup, clothed in the coat of the Musketeers.

"Do not be ridiculous, Aramis. I will be perfectly safe. That storm is still some miles off, I will be back in plenty of time," she said dismissively, flicking her dark curls over her shoulder. Finally she met the eyes of the men whose job it was to protect her.

Aramis was the elder of the two, and handsome in an unsophisticated way. Waves of burnished brown hair brushed his shoulders, framing a chiselled face with shrewd eyes and a neat beard above a thin-lipped mouth. And then there was D'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan possessed dark waves of hair that trailed to his collarbone, strong patriarchal facial planes of a classical beauty, piercing eyes that seemed to convey both great compassion and a candidness that would never serve at court. A trim moustache sat above a sensual mouth, one that Anne had to admit was attractive. But for all his physical attractiveness, D'Artagnan was arrogant and dismissive, which grated on Anne's temperament. They rarely saw eye to eye.

"My lady, at least take one of us with you. For safety, if nothing else," Aramis came close to pleading.

"Aramis, I do not require a chaperone for a simple ride through the countryside. I will not be turned on the subject. Now I shall be back within an hour," she said firmly. Without looking at the Musketeers, Anne wheeled her horse and galloped out of the courtyard.

D'Artagnan watched the young Queen ride away and exhaled a sigh through gritted teeth.

"Patience, D'Artagnan," Aramis sighed, but there was a warning edge to his tone.

"That girl's a damned fool. She'll get herself killed one day," D'Artagnan retorted heatedly.

"That girl's a Queen, D'Artagnan. Remember that," Aramis clapped him on the shoulder before he walked away. D'Artagnan barely registered the gesture; all his senses were centred on the woodland that Queen Anne had disappeared into. With a muttered curse, he flung away and disappeared into the tack room to fetch a saddle.

* * *

Anne raced through the countryside atop her stallion, revelling in the freedom. The forest flashed past in a blur of emeralds and browns, the sound of the wind through the trees and the thud of her mount's hooves the only noise in the peaceful woods. Not an animal moved in the undergrowth. The quiet before the storm. She halted her horse and took a deep breath.

Freedom.

How she longed for it, just a taste of everything granted to lesser mortals, who weren't born with the burden of being royal. To love and be loved not for her royal blood, but for her_self_. Loneliness ate at the heart of her.

The King had sent her away to one of his Chateaus, so he could be free to pursue his many mistresses without interruption. For her health, he had said.

_Ha,_ Anne snorted derisively to herself, _for my health my foot!_

Now she was stuck in some draughty castle, with only Musketeers for company! At least she had her maid and confidant by her side always. At least that was some consolation.

With a sigh she set off again, emerging from the woodland onto the plains and the cultivated farmlands. She set off at a hard gallop, letting her hair fly wild and free. She didn't see the iron-grey storm clouds already massing ever closer, the flickering of silver lightning in the distance. Her mount jibbed at the bit, pulling at the reins. For a moment, Anne lost control, but she reined in, hauling the animal to a halt. She caught her breath whilst the stallion fidgeted and fussed beneath her. Suddenly the sound of hooves sounded on the plains, and Anne turned her head to find a rider approaching swiftly on a strong bay. She recognised the emblem of the Musketeers and she sighed through her teeth. Furious, she whirled her mount and dug her heels in, galloping as fast as she could in the opposite direction. _Let's see if the Musketeer can catch up,_ she thought with a wry smirk. But then the thunder started. Great rolling crashes of sound, as though cannons duelled in the heavens above. Relentless, terrifying…..

Anne's horse bucked and reared, Anne only just managing to keep her seat, as it bolted, terrified by the sound. Anne could only hold on.

D'Artagnan crested the rise, and saw her. Glorious and beautiful in the declining light, he felt his heart skip a beat. Ignoring it, he let his irritation rise, as he began to gallop towards her. He saw her turn her head, and even with the distance between them, he could imagine her grit-teeth sigh and furious expression. He had been seeing enough of it in the past few months. He cursed as she turned and bolted away in a wild gallop, but then the thunder started. Fear clutched his heart as he saw her lose control of her mount, as it bucked and reared before it bolted uncontrollably. He set the bay after her, praying he would make it in time. He couldn't think, not for anything beyond the tiny figure bouncing as she fought to retain her seat. Side-saddle, she had no room for error, and jouncing as she was, she had no hope of controlling the beast. The downs were uneven, the horse's pounding strides would jar through her, wrenching her arms and weakening her hold on the reins.

Until she fell.

* * *

Anne gritted her teeth, desperately trying to stop her breath being slammed out of her with every stride the black took. The dips and folds in the land meant little to the horse, but to her, they meant her arms being wrenched from their sockets and still the horse continued to fly, panicked by the encroaching storm. Only her boot in the stirrup and her leg locked around the pommel kept her in her seat.

She couldn't hold on any longer.

The thought flew through her mind, but in that instant, Anne heard the slow, heavy thud of horse hooves pursuing her. Closing, excruciatingly slowly closing…..

"My Lady!"

The bay drew alongside, and Anne risked a glance sideways. D'Artagnan.

Relief flooded her, for once, until she looked ahead. Panic clawed at her throat, as she saw a series of folds on the green. Up, down, up, down- she would never hold her seat through that. Already the black's stride jolted the breath from her lungs, preventing her from taking a deep breath. She hauled on the reins, but to no avail. Her tired arms didn't have the strength to fight the horse any more.

"My Lady, kick your legs free NOW!" D'Artagnan commanded one hand on the reins, another reaching for her. Anne forced herself to ignore the fact that she would surely fall, and did as he bid, for once.

The instant her feet were free, D'Artagnan swept her into his arms, as she pushed away from the saddle. And reached for him.

He swung her over and pulled her to him, steadying her in the saddle before him. Anne, giddy with relief and exhaustion, clung to him, fighting back the hysterical tears. She curled herself into him, her head tucked into the hollow of his collarbone, her boots and skirts flowing over one hard thigh. She had never imagined how stone-like D'Artagnan's limbs felt. But she was safe.

D'Artagnan felt the soft reality of the woman in his arms, closed his eyes and drew her scent in deep, that of lavender and lily-of-the-valley. She was safe in his arms. He had saved her.

The image of her, sprawled over the coarse ground, eyes shut and unmoving, was enough to make him tighten his arms protectively, a strange emotion coursing through his blood. He slowed the bay gradually, knowing that a showy stop would only unseat Anne more. When the bay was walking calmly, despite the thunder crashes, he looked down at his charge.

"My lady, are you alright?" he asked, his voice strangely hoarse. At such close quarters, he was overwhelmed by the beauty of her face, etched with vulnerability. His gaze unconsciously dropped to her lips, before he brought them back to her enthralling eyes.

"Yes, yes I am fine," she breathed, crushed as she was against D'Artagnan's body. But she was as enthralled by his eyes as he was by hers. "What about the black?"

"He'll come in of his own accord. Or I'll send one of the grooms out," D'Artagnan replied, his warm breath fanning her lips. His arms still had not loosened their hold on her. This close, she breathed in his scent. The smell of boot polish and some unknown fragrance she had never encountered.

"Thank you," she whispered, her eyes searching his. In an instant she saw the shutters come down over his eyes, keeping her out. The barrier was down; they were Queen and protector once more.

"You're welcome, Your Majesty. You should be a little more careful in future," he said coldly, gathering the reins and looking ahead. Anne stared at his profile, indignation flooding her veins.

"You have no right to preach to the Queen, D'Artagnan," she replied, easing out of his arms, holding her head erect. But his grip did not loosen.

"I have every right, my lady. How can I and the others be expected to protect you, if you ride neck or nothing in the middle of a thunderstorm?" D'Artagnan continued calmly, despite the impulse to fly at her, but she was the Queen.

"My life is mine to do with as I please-"

"It is not. You are the Queen; your life is not your own to be risked," D'Artagnan cut her off.

"Do not lecture me, Musketeer!" Anne barked, before she muttered to herself, "The King would probably be relieved at the chance to take another wife,"

* * *

D'Artagnan heard but didn't reply. He knew, as did the others, that the royal marriage was nothing but a sham of convenience. And his heart beat in pity for her, when she wasn't enacting the role of a reckless thorn in his side.

But his thoughts were interrupted as a rain shower drenched them, just as they reached the forest. He cursed quietly and spurred his mount into a canter, careful on the muddy paths. When he took a left turn on the way back to the chateau, Anne roused herself to say loudly.

"You're going the wrong way!"

"No. This rainstorm will last some hours. We can't have the royal head catch a cold, now can we?" D'Artagnan said irritably.

Anne couldn't help but smile. She riled at the comment nonetheless.

"Your impertinence will land you knee-deep in trouble one day, D'Artagnan," she remarked.

"And your recklessness chin-deep in trouble, one day," D'Artagnan muttered. Anne didn't deign to reply. He broke the frosty silence to say, "There is a huntsman's cottage a few yards from here. We can take refuge there,"

The rain lashed at them as they approached the cottage. D'Artagnan slid to a stop on the marshy ground, as he dismounted. He turned back to the horse to lower Anne to the ground, taking her weight easily in his strong arms. The feel of her waist between his hands sent a shiver through him, which he determinedly ignored. Anne's breath fled as D'Artagnan held her so tightly. Warmth blossomed from the area his hands touched, although muted by heavy silk and her corset. He lowered her slowly to the ground, and the barriers came down once more. She stared into his eyes, and felt her heart skip a beat. The rain poured down, yet they could not feel it through the heat blossoming in the both of them, the spell holding them enthralled.

Anne suddenly shivered, and the spell was broken. D'Artagnan shrugged off his coat and draped it around her shoulders.

"Go inside. The door should be open," he indicated the door to the rustic cottage, the windows shuttered and empty. Anne nodded and turned away. When she gained the door, she turned and watched as D'Artagnan began to draw the horse towards the makeshift stable alongside the cottage. His hair was plastered to his skull by the rain, black and heavy with water. His shirt was drenched to the skin, displaying the strong muscles of his back and upper arms. Anne caught her breath and hurriedly went into the cottage. Inside, the cottage was basic at best, but warm and dry. Firewood was stacked in a corner by the fireplace, beside a metal kettle and stool. Before the hearth stood two armchairs, deep and comfortable, a dresser by the side wall, and another door led through to what she guessed was a bed chamber. Anne explored, and found cloths and a packet of tea in the dresser. She filled the kettle and put it over the fire, and began to stack firewood in the hearth. She was utterly absorbed in her task when, suddenly, a muscular hand caught hers, and she turned her head to find herself looking straight into D'Artagnan's eyes. She felt her breath leave her abruptly, as she straightened, and D'Artagnan's hand left hers.

"Let me, my lady," he said, gesturing to the stack of wood. Anne's eyes narrowed.

"I'm perfectly capable you know," she muttered. D'Artagnan's eyes flashed.

"I never implied otherwise, Your Majesty. But let me, regardless. I insist," he forced out through gritted teeth. Anne reluctantly conceded and drew away to one of the armchairs. Sitting, she covertly examined D'Artagnan as he worked.

His hair was still soaked to his skull from the rain storm, whilst his shirt had, thankfully for Anne's peace of mind, dried. A rapier hung from his hip, and she noted the elegance and balance of the design. Not a sword found on many Musketeers.

"It belonged to my father," D'Artagnan's smooth baritone suddenly interrupted her thoughts. She looked up into his eyes.

"He was a Musketeer?" she asked, suddenly curious about this young man, who served her husband so diligently and devotedly. D'Artagnan, sensing her curiosity, nodded.

"He served His Majesty's father. He died to protect him,"

"I am sorry," Anne whispered. D'Artagnan shook his head.

"Don't be, my lady. He died as he would have wished. I can think of no better end than his," he assured her. He took a seat in the opposite armchair, as Anne stared dreamily into the now roaring fire. The warmth penetrated her sodden skirts, washing over her like a hot bath. She sighed contentedly. D'Artagnan looked over at her, still swathed in his black Musketeer's cloak.

"You should try to sleep, my lady. The storm will take some time to blow out. There is a bed in the next room, if you wish," he said, settling down in the comfortable armchair.

"No thank you, D'Artagnan. I would prefer to remain here. Besides I am not tired," Anne replied haughtily, stifling a yawn. D'Artagnan smiled to himself, amused by her stubbornness. Anne's eyes narrowed. "You know, D'Artagnan, that smile of yours is very revealing. What do you mean by it?"

"Nothing, my lady," he stopped smiling hastily. Anne sat up straighter.

"The smile has gone. I demand to know what I said which was so amusing," she continued, a small smile of her own on her lips.

"Very well, my lady." D'Artagnan sighed, "I was just…..thinking on the stubbornness of royal heads, my lady,"

Anne laughed.

"Forgive me, my lady, it was but an errant thought," D'Artagnan looked quickly at his Queen, but she did not seem displeased. Indeed she seemed amused. Her face was vibrant with her laughter.

"Do not apologise, D'Artagnan. You can redeem yourself by telling this stubborn Queen of your home. I-I have never been to Gascony," Anne suddenly felt awkward. The atmosphere had visibly thawed between them, and Anne did not wish to make him uncomfortable. She knew from overhearing the Musketeers' conversations, the origins of her guards. She was curious about this man, so unlike the court fops and sycophantic advisers of her husband. She wanted to see behind the shield he employed in her presence. She wanted to know him.

"Very well, my lady. Gascony is a great, rolling country of lush vineyards and leafy forests. In summer, when the sun shone through the leaves, they would shine with so many splendid hues of gold and green, lovelier than any stained glass window. We would run, as children, down to the vineyards in the wine-making season, to pick the earliest fruits. The farmers would run out, shouting and gesticulating with their pitchforks, and we would run away, laughing and stained with grape juice. We would play hide-and-seek in the meadows. They were like undulating oceans of grass, the lonely, open spaces echoing with songs of the crickets in the evening. Oh to ride in the lonely lanes of Gascony was to experience true freedom; there was never many people in the woodlands," D'Artagnan dredged up memories of his childhood, his voice hypnotic in the warm cottage, the sounds of the storm kept at bay, for the moment. Anne observed him openly.

"You sound as though you miss it," she said softly, remembering her own childhood, growing up in the royal courts of Austria. There had been no simple pleasures there, no fun in the vineyards, or games of hide-and-seek in the meadows. Just endless boredom.

"I do, sometimes. But I am content here and in Paris. Indeed I do not regret my decision to join the Musketeers. It gave my life purpose," he replied.

"You are so lucky, D'Artagnan. To have such wonderful memories, of such freedom and happiness," Anne sighed wistfully.

"Do you not have such memories, my lady?" D'Artagnan forgot his station, and hers, forgot that they were mistress and servant, in talking to the woman behind the crown. He had seen her fiery temper and stubborn independence firsthand, and now he was discovering the gentler, human side of her.

"No. My life at court was all about duty, and preparing for a life I had no choice about. And, please, D'Artagnan," she impulsively asked, "Please call me Anne. At least in private, like this,"

"I do not know if that is wise," D'Artagnan began, before he saw her expression and softened. "If you so wish it, my la- Anne. But only when we are private like this," he conceded. He very much doubted he would ever be private with the Queen again, so it couldn't hurt to breach decorum, just this once.

"Thank you," Anne whispered, as D'Artagnan's eyes rose to hers. What he saw in the shining jewels was an unguessed at lifetime of loneliness and deprivation. She might have had the best silks and satins, toys and books money could buy, but she had had nothing else. Love she had never felt, friendship a foreign concept, affection an unguessed at dream. He felt true pity for her.

"What are you thinking, D'Artagnan?" she asked, watching his expression with a smile. D'Artagnan smiled and looked down at his boots.

"That, Anne, maybe you are not so much of a spoiled brat as I took you for. Forgive my blindness," he joked, greatly daring. Anne laughed.

"And you are not so much of an arrogant, conceited braggart that I took you for." Anne retorted.

"Touché,"

"I will forgive you, if you forgive me, my friend," Anne continued, holding out her hand. After a moment's hesitation, D'Artagnan took it.

"Then it's a deal," he smiled, as their hands entwined. He felt an electric shock jump through him at her touch, and felt the same tremor run through her. Their eyes locked, and Anne felt her breath leave her abruptly.

"Thank you, for saving my life, D'Artagnan," she whispered softly. Eyes focussed on hers, he raised her hand to his lips.

"I would do anything for you, my Queen. Anything," he whispered back. Anne smiled.

"I know. And it's Anne," she reminded him gently.

"Anne. Anne." D'Artagnan found he liked the feel of that single syllable on his tongue. He nodded once and released her hand. "You should sleep. We're going to be stuck here awhile,"

As his hand brushed the palm of hers, Anne hissed slightly in pain. The reins had rubbed the skin raw, where she had held them so tightly in her fight to control the black. D'Artagnan's gaze sharpened and he was out of his seat in a moment.

"What is it?" he asked, turning her palms over. Underneath, the skin was pink and shiny, calluses already forming on the silken skin.

"My hands are just sore. From the riding," she explained, her cheeks burning slightly with embarrassment. He, no doubt, had suffered far worse.

* * *

Unaware of Anne's discomfort, D'Artagnan examined her hands gently, his large thumb stroking the rubbed flesh. Anne could feel her tension relaxing at the comforting movement.

"There should be some salve in the dresser," he said. He released her hand, and disappeared behind to search the dresser. Anne sighed and relaxed back into her chair, her eyes closing wearily. When she opened them again, it was to find D'Artagnan kneeling in front of her, a small pot of salve in his large hand. Without a word he massaged the cooling mixture into her skin, and Anne could feel herself beginning to drift off. Her head fell back on the wing of the chair, as she slipped into slumber, D'Artagnan's soothing baritone the last sound echoing in her head.

Anne awoke to glorious sunlight streaming through the windows. She stirred and groaned at the ache in her neck.

"I told you, you should've taken the bed," a voice said from the side of her. Anne turned her head, and a nondescript plaid blanket fell from where it had been tucked around her shoulders. D'Artagnan knelt by the hearth, stoking the embers.

"Oh don't be so smug, D'Artagnan. And don't say 'I told you so'," Anne groaned, shrugging the blanket away. D'Artagnan straightened from the hearth and proffered a steaming cup of tea.

"Here. And I would never dream of it, Anne," he smiled. She accepted the mug gracefully.

"Is the storm over yet?" she asked. D'Artagnan sighed and turned to the door.

"Yes. It blew out by dawn," he replied. Anne sat up, alarmed.

"Dawn? You mean it is tomorrow?" she said, cupping her hands around the warmth of the tea.

"Well, I suppose it is today, really," he caught sight of Anne's face and stopped, "Yes it is the day after, my Lady. The rain has stopped, and the sky is clear. We can return to the chateau, as soon as you're ready, my lady,"

"Oh. Yes," Anne turned away from D'Artagnan, reminded of their positions, and the reality that awaited them beyond the walls of the little cottage. For a blazing moment, she didn't want to leave the cottage and return to the dry world that awaited her. They would return, and the slight friendship that had grown out of the animosity she had borne D'Artagnan until yesterday would be forced to dissipate. They would become strangers again. And to her surprise, the thought brought tears to her eyes.

"Anne? Is anything the matter?" D'Artagnan knelt in front of his Queen, and impulsively took her hand. He saw the tears just beginning to sparkle in her eyes, and felt something within him seize. He couldn't stand to see her cry.

"It is silly," she muttered, looking down at his strong hands, entwined with her small one.

"Please. Tell me, Anne," he whispered, tilting her chin up again, his eyes intent on hers. Anne took a deep, shuddering breath.

"I-I find myself….unwilling to leave this little cottage, and return to the outside world. Do you never feel like that, D'Artagnan? Wishing for a simple life, when all you have is an extravagant misery? Do you not wish for a simpler life than you have been given?" she said, turning away to hide her tears. D'Artagnan caught her arms and turned her back.

"No I do not. But I cannot bear to see you cry, my lady. I promise you I would do everything and anything in my power to make your life bearable," he said earnestly, achingly aware of the slender arms encased in emerald silk beneath his fingers. Anne smiled up at him through her tears.

"I do not think anything can make my life bearable, D'Artagnan. But thank you,"

"What for?"

"For allowing me one glance at a life I have craved. For not treating me as your Queen, but as an equal and a friend. I wish that would not change," she sighed, her voice a painful whisper. D'Artagnan placed a gloved hand on her cheek.

"My lady that will _not_ change," he replied passionately, "I can do nothing about how I behave and act around you in the company of others, but if ever we are private, I will not treat you as anything other than an equal, if you so desire,"

"I do. With my whole heart, I do," she said, a smile lighting up her features. D'Artagnan smiled back.

"Your smile is back, my lady. And it is good to see it," he whispered. Anne placed one of her hands on his cheek, opposite to his hand on hers, and put on a mock-stern expression.

"I thought I told you, it's Anne," she reminded him gently.

"Anne. Anne," he murmured, a gentle smile on his lips. Anne's eyes darted down to them, her breath hitching. She felt the atmosphere tense, like a thunderstorm, as she softened, her breath coming short through parted lips.

* * *

"D'Artagnan! D'Artagnan!" the shout came from outside, tearing the spell which held them apart. D'Artagnan released Anne quickly and turned to the door, which was blown open by Porthos.

"D'Artagnan! You are alright!" the large Musketeer barrelled into the room and embraced D'Artagnan rambunctiously. Anne moved out the way quickly. Aramis and Athos, a tall fair-haired Musketeer, followed.

"Your Majesty, when your horse came back to the stables rider-less, we feared the worst. It is good to find you safe and sound," Aramis said, his eyes on the Queen.

"You have D'Artagnan to thank for that," she inclined her head gracefully, a chilly cloak of hauteur draped over her.

"We should return to the chateau. Come," D'Artagnan extricated himself from Porthos's grip and met Anne's gaze. Taking a deep breath, she nodded.

"Let us go," she inclined her head, and swept out of the cottage.


	2. Chapter 2

A Rose By Any Other Name Would Still Smell As Sweet

* * *

Anne and the Musketeers rode back into the chateau, Anne behind D'Artagnan, clutching his waist. As they dismounted, Anne's maids rushed from the chateau and began fussing and clucking over their charge. They ushered her into the entrance hall, the Musketeers caring for the horses outside. As she was swept toward her rooms and a hot bath, Anne looked over her shoulder at D'Artagnan, silhouetted in the doorway of the hall. He gave her a small smile and mouthed, 'I promise'. Anne smiled back and nodded, before she allowed herself to be herded away.

* * *

_A few weeks later_

"Come on D'Artagnan! Keep up, if you can," Anne's exhilarated laugh echoed through the forest where she and her new escort rode at a gallop. D'Artagnan laughed as he rode beside her, his grey easily keeping up with Anne's feisty black.

"Is that a challenge?" he asked, a lopsided smile on his lips. Anne threw her head back in laughter, her raven curls flowing behind her like a cape with the speed of their race.

"It is, D'Artagnan. Catch me if you can!" she cried, and spurred the black on, away from D'Artagnan. He laughed and followed, as they raced through the forest. The path became steeper, as they galloped towards a rise, which looked out over the farmlands, and the trees became sparser, flashes of broken ground in-between the emerald hues. He spurred his mount on, drawing level with Anne once more as they reached their goal. Anne laughed a laugh of pure ecstasy, as she reined her ride in, halting him with a slight rear.

"A draw I think, D'Artagnan." Anne remarked with a raised eyebrow. "You held out on me."

"That's not true, on my honour, Anne," he said with a slight grin, as he dismounted and tied his stallion's reins to a branch, leaving him to crop grass. He crossed to Anne and held her waist as she slid from her perch. The feeling had become comfortable in the last few weeks.

Anne had willingly given in to the Musketeers' insistence that she take an escort out when she rode. It meant she could spend more time with D'Artagnan. Their friendship had blossomed, finding that they were more alike than they had foreseen.

Anne longed for the moments she spent with D'Artagnan, the walks through the gardens, when he would ostensibly be protecting her, the daily rides, long into the afternoon, the hours of conversations. D'Artagnan would regale her with tales of his home country and his childhood, his exploits with the Musketeers; Anne told him of her life in Austria, the stories of the idiosyncrasies and hypocrisies of life at court. And now, as Anne gazed up at D'Artagnan, his hands encircling her waist, she felt her breath catch at his classical beauty.

For some time, she had become conscious of an awareness between them, an admiration that ran deeper than friendship or respect. She was achingly conscious of him when they were close, and of herself. When he looked at her, in unguarded moments, it made her feel like the most important woman in the world. And he, he had become her light in the darkness, her beacon of hope in her misery. Let Louis run after his mistresses; Anne knew in her heart that what was growing between D'Artagnan and she was infinitely more powerful.

She knew it could not last. She was his Queen, he her protector and servant. They could not allow themselves to fall in love. But Anne knew it was also inevitable.

Anne stepped out of D'Artagnan's arms, and glided to the edge of the rocky outcropping that they stood upon. D'Artagnan watched her for a moment, haloed by the sun.

She was dressed in a high-necked, plum riding gown and matching cap with a black plume. Her long raven curls had been swept up beneath her cap, but a few ringlets had escaped during their ride. She looked like an angel. She shot him a swift smile over her shoulder, as he came to stand by her side. Unconsciously, their hands entwined, as they stood in silence, recovering from their race.

"It's so peaceful here. So quiet, so beautiful," Anne murmured, her eyes taking in the rolling countryside before them, the song of the birds echoing around them.

"Yes it is beautiful. As are you," D'Artagnan said quietly beside her. Anne's gaze flew to his eyes, her breath hitching. D'Artagnan cursed his misstep, but couldn't stop himself from raising her gloved hand to his lips, and planting a kiss across her knuckles. It was all he dared to do. She was his Queen, he could not allow himself to fall in love with her. But to his surprise, she slipped her hand from his, and laid it on his cheek. He turned his head and brushed a kiss across her palm. Anne smiled, her pulse racing, and turned away, relishing the warmth of the skin beneath her fingers. She walked along the edge of the rise, staring down the face contemplatively. D'Artagnan let her go, anxious not to distress her because of his foolishness. He dreaded making their relationship even more complex. Her gasp of delight broke him from his reverie.

* * *

Anne was bent over a clump of bushes, where wild roses blossomed among the thorns. They were all scarlet, like great cups of blood in the emerald wilderness. She bent her head to theirs blooms and inhaled their fragrance, holding the stem delicately between her fingers.

"They are lovely, aren't they D'Artagnan?" she exclaimed, and he jumped at the chance to slip back into the comforting familiarity of their friendship.

"Yes they are. This variety only grows in two places; here and at the royal court, if I'm not mistaken," he told her. After a moment's hesitation he reached down and plucked the rose for her, presenting it with a graceful bow, sweeping his plumed hat from his head.

"For you, my lady," he said with a smile. Anne laughed and accepted it gracefully.

"I thank you, my knight-in-shining-armour," she joked, and yet it was not so far from the truth. Her grip tightened as she looked into those enthralling eyes, and she felt a sudden, sharp pain on the pad of her fingertip. She gasped.

D'Artagnan's eyes widened with concern as he held her hand up. One of the rose's thorns had pricked deep into the skin of her fingertip, and red blood, as red as the petals of the rose he had given her, peppered her glove.

"It's alright, just a prick," he explained soothingly, as he drew the glove off for a closer look. Anne's breath became shallower, straining against the bodice of her gown at the movement, the inevitable fantasies flickering through her mind. D'Artagnan fought not to notice and focussed on the cut. It was shallow and small, not dangerous. His eyes met hers, and he couldn't resist the invitation in them. He bent his head and gently took her wounded finger in his mouth, kissing the tip of it and sucking away the blood. Anne shuddered, her lids falling, as they stood, eyes gazing avidly at each other, in the stillness of the warm afternoon.

Nothing moved, not even a bird, as D'Artagnan and Anne looked into one another's eyes, the breeze rippling her skirts and his cloak. Anne felt as though she could have stood there forever.

D'Artagnan's lips released her finger, and he looked down, releasing her from his mesmerising gaze.

"We should return. They'll be sending out a search party at this rate," he said, his voice roughened to a gravelly tone.

"Yes," Anne agreed dazedly, as they turned and walked back to their horses. D'Artagnan helped her to mount, and they rode back in silence.

* * *

_That Evening_

Anne was walking through the gardens, a sealed missive clutched in her hand. A strange sense of dread had filled her when the letter with its elegantly curled script had been dropped onto the salver by her elbow. Even now, she hesitated to open it. Taking a deep breath, summoning her courage, she broke the seal.

It was the fleur-de-lis, the symbol of her husband.

With shaking hands, she began to read.

D'Artagnan watched Anne from the terrace, dressed in a wine-red silk gown, the sleeves effortlessly displaying the slender curve of her shoulders. Her long dark hair was arranged in trailing ringlets around her face, a simple silver tiara perched on her hair. Seeing her open her letter, he sighed. He knew what it contained. And, despite his resolution, it spelled the beginning of the end for the love he bore his Queen. His Anne.

He saw Anne's hands clench on the paper, as she closed her eyes, a single tear sparkling like a diamond on her cheek, in the light of the setting sun. He saw her breasts rise and fall, as she clutched the letter to her chest, and looked around wildly. He ducked behind a wall, as Anne looked around for him wildly, but she would not find him.

Anne looked desperately for D'Artagnan, expecting to find him watching over her as usual. But he was nowhere to be seen. The contents of the letter had crushed her heart, and she needed him now more than ever. She was to return to the court of Versailles the next day, to take up permanent residence there. The very thought sent waves of panic through her; she wanted nothing more than to remain at the chateau with D'Artagnan, with the simplicity of country life, and the impossible love that was developing between them. After a moment, she took a pain-filled breath and turned, breaking into a run as she headed for the chapel. She needed to seek guidance and peace, and the only place she could do that was in the one place she found solace. Her faith was the only thing she had left.

She burst into the chapel, and sank to her knees before the altar, the letter from her husband still clutched close in her hand. Now she was alone, without prying eyes, she let the tears free.

"Oh what can I do?" she whispered, her hands clasped in desperate prayer, her head bowed in pain. "I don't want to leave him!"

Her hands unclasped, trembling, and she leant her head on her hands, upon the pew. She jerked up, at the feel of silky petals and thorns beneath her fingers. On the polished cherry wood lay a scarlet rose, two furled blooms beneath the fully open one on the satiny stem. And with a gasp of delight, she raised it to her face, and inhaled its fragrance. The silky petals rubbed against the skin of her cheek, as she closed her eyes. With an utter certainty, she knew who had left it for her. Her tears abruptly stopped, as she felt his presence nearby, his distinctive scent mixing with the scents of candle wax, rose bloom and the fresh smells of summer, filtering through the door.

* * *

"My lady," she felt rather than heard his quiet murmur, as she turned to him. He stood in the doorway, the sunlight striking red glints in his dark hair, flowing past his collarbone, his beloved eyes filled with compassion and devotion. "Anne,"

Anne stood and rushed into his arms. He met her halfway down the aisle, catching her in his arms and holding her tightly. He knew it was wrong and dangerous, but he couldn't bring himself to let her go. She buried her face in his hair, holding him to her desperately.

"We're to return to Versailles tomorrow." Anne choked out, her tears falling fast.

"I know, Anne. I know," D'Artagnan sighed, holding her tightly. He cupped her nape, and inhaled the sweet scent of her raven curls flowing around him.

"Oh, D'Artagnan. Why did this have to happen to us?" she breathed against his neck, as his arms tightened around her. D'Artagnan sighed and leant his chin on her sweet smelling hair,

"I don't know. I don't know, my Anne," he sighed, his eyes closing in pain. The soft weight of her in his arms impinged on his senses, urging him to step over the line and commit a deed which could destroy them. It was treason for them to love one another, and treason to act upon that love. If anyone saw them, they would both be sent to the executioner's block.

"Say it again. Say my name again," she asked pleadingly, raising her head from his chest to look into his eyes.

"My Anne," he murmured, as he rested his forehead against hers, the rose he had left for her held between them. Anne's lips parted, and she felt a shiver ripple through her at the sound of her name on his lips. She was achingly aware of his hands, one at her waist, another stroking her hair soothingly. She felt stunned by the rush of burning desire that flashed through her. D'Artagnan saw it in her eyes, felt the same begin to rise in him.

"No, Anne, no. We cannot," he breathed, his warm breath fanning her lips.

"I know. I know," she whispered back, her eyes closing, as they both fought to retain control, fighting to deny the longing coursing through their veins.

"You should go. Now." He said stiltedly, his arms lowering from her reluctantly. Anne nodded and stepped back.

"Goodnight, D'Artagnan," she breathed, before she turned and walked out of the chapel. She did not look back.

"Goodnight…..my love," he replied, his fist clenching where it had held her so intimately, fighting the desire to run after her, catch her up in his arms, and kiss the life out of her.

It was impossible.

* * *

_The Court of Versailles, a few months later…_

Anne sat at her escritoire in her apartments at Versailles, and gazed longingly out of the window. In that moment she missed the chateau more now than ever.

Since returning to Versailles, her riding had been curbed, as the parks, whilst good for trotting or a canter, were not conducive to the wild galloping she so enjoyed. Her long walks in the country had diminished to a turn around the gardens, and her interaction with D'Artagnan had died down to a distant respect, since they barely saw each other anymore. He was always so busy with his duties and missions, whilst she had begun to taken on the mantle of Queenship, as was expected of her. But she mourned the loss of D'Artagnan. Her life had become a whirling vortex of royal duties and intense boredom. She hated it. Her only constant was the hours she spent in the chapel, every morning and afternoon.

And each morning and afternoon, she would find a single red rose awaiting her on the pew. The fragrance would bring back memories of their time at the chateau, and their gentle love. It let her know that D'Artagnan hadn't forgotten her. That their love lived on. That he was loving her in the only way he could.

And now, when she sat at her escritoire and finished the menus for the soiree the next evening, she couldn't help but sigh and let herself slip into daydreams.

"Your Majesty?" Anne jerked herself from her daydream, and turned her head to find her confidant, Caroline, by her elbow. The middle-aged old nun smiled fondly at her charge. "Your Majesty, I have good news."

"Yes? What is it?" Anne swivelled on her seat, her pearl grey silks shushing sibilantly on the ivory damask chair.

Her entire apartment was painted in shades of gold and ivory, gilding covering the cornices and even the bedposts. Paintings of cherubs and Greek gods covered the walls, a reproduction of Venus emerging from the sea above her bed. The bed was an ocean of gold silk, with gold gauze trailing down the mahogany posts like jungle vines. And yet Anne seemed out of place in her demure, almost nunnish gown, her hair covered by a veil. Right then, she was almost tapping her foot in impatience to hear what Caroline had to tell her.

"My Lady," Caroline knelt and took her Queen's hand, a smile on her lined face, "The Musketeers have returned, and they will be at the soiree tomorrow night. _He_ has come home, safe and sound!" she whispered, happiness shining in her faded blue eyes. Anne's breath stopped.

For the past month, D'Artagnan had been on campaign with his fellow Musketeers in the North of France, defending their border from the Dutch. She had been worried to the point of insomnia for his safety, but it seemed he had returned, hale and whole. There had been no roses for a few weeks.

"Thank God! Thank God!" she cried out, standing in a flurry of opaline skirts. She hurried from her chamber and ran to the chapel, to pray and thank God for allowing D'Artagnan's safe return.

* * *

The chapel at the court of Versailles was a small, square stone box of ancient Gothic mortar and polished mahogany wooden panels, the simple altar covered with a lace cloth, the reliquary and lines of candles placed atop it. Directly behind was a painting of the Virgin Mary and the Apostles, the inlaid gold flickering from the lights of the candelabras that flanked the altar. And sure enough, there on the red velvet pew, was a single red rose, its pure petals vibrant in the dark chapel. Anne glided forward gracefully, to pick up the flower and hold it to her face. She fell to her knees, and held it between her clasped hands as she closed her eyes and began to pray. Happiness radiated through her being for the first time in days. Her love was home, and she would see him tomorrow.

The next evening could not come around quick enough for Anne. There had been no time for her devotions that day as the preparations for her first formal function as the Queen of France continued. There was so much to organise; the fireworks, the musicians, the food, the music to be played, the entertainment for the evening. But she had been prepared since her earliest years to fulfil such a role, and so she could do it blindfolded. The main courtyard of Versailles and the gardens had been transformed into an Eden, candles shedding golden light over the green oceans of grass, illuminating the white and red roses in the flowerbeds, marble chips of the pathways turned into roads of gold. Anne ran a practiced eye over the guests and the servants, making sure all was in readiness before she descended from her hiding place. She was to descend after the King. She felt her heartbeat rise when she saw a flash of black and silver. The Musketeers were here, acting as guards for their King and Queen. And somewhere, D'Artagnan was in the crowd.

The trumpets sounded, and the King descended from the palace, dressed in cream silk and gold, imposing and handsome. But to Anne, his beauty was weak and lifeless, when compared to the vigorous and vibrant classical beauty of her love. She looked everywhere for a flash of dark hair, or piercing blue eyes. The fanfare sounded again, and she straightened, smoothing down her skirts. Quickly looking in a mirror, she smiled shyly at her reflection, before she swept around the corner and began to descend towards the party. Her eyes swept the assembled guests as they all bowed and curtsied, as she glided towards the King, who waited, his hand outstretched. Anne spotted Aramis, Athos and Porthos. But where was D'Artagnan? What if he had been wounded, or was ill, or had been detained? What if…?

"You look lovely, my dear," Louis XIII graciously took her hand, and they glided down the stairs together. Anne inclined her head, still searching desperately for her D'Artagnan. "The party is already a resounding success, my Queen,"

"I thank you, Your Majesty," she replied, a social smile on her lips. Once they had reached their guests, they parted ways, Louis to one of his precious mistresses and her to seek the one person she truly wanted to see. But she could find him nowhere.

Defeated, Anne stood to one side as the dancing struck up, her nun-confidant Caroline, standing slightly behind her. She sighed, and fought down the burgeoning sense of disappointment she felt. Any pleasure she anticipated over the soiree had long since evaporated, tears threatening to fall. Why wasn't he here?

* * *

D'Artagnan stood in the shadows at the very edge of the ring of light. He patrolled with the others, keeping a lookout for would-be assassins. Fighting to keep his mind off the woman he had longed for, in the hell of the last few weeks. But then she appeared at the top of the stairs, every inch a Queen, and he felt such yearning sweep him, enough to make his knees weak. She was gowned in silk the colour of old gold, her dark waves of hair swept up but for one, trailing ringlet that stood out against her alabaster skin, like a crow's wing against the purest snow. She wore the glittering Crown Jewels of France around her neck, and on her head, like shining beacons of gold and diamonds in the night.

Anne's gown clung to her arms and torso, showcasing the Aphrodite D'Artagnan knew she could be, whether gowned in drab grey or her most vibrant reds and golds, before the skirts flared from her hips like a waterfall of gold and lace. Her skin was flushed rose; her eyes glittered as they searched desperately.

For him.

This he knew, and so he kept away, hugging the shadows. It broke his heart to see the disappointment in her eyes, his soul crying out just to hold her in his arms. But it could not be. They could not allow themselves this.

But then Caroline, Anne's confidant, cornered him, when he was forced to skirt the flowerbeds, and emerge into the light for one moment. She snagged his arm, and led him unobtrusively to stand behind her, hidden by the shadows cast by a statue in the moonlight. He sighed and capitulated. At least from this vantage point he was in easy reach of the King and Queen, and virtually invisible to the guests. But then Anne came to stand by Caroline's side, and he sighed again. That nun had as much scheming intrigue in her as any courtier. Anne stood, straight and as fair as a lily, and he watched her hungrily. With the black of his uniform, he blended seamlessly into the night, so he could drink in the sight of his love uninterrupted. The flashes of her face that he caught were full of sadness and longing, and he followed her gaze to the King cavorting with his mistresses, all young exquisite beauties that could not hold a candle to Anne. How the King was the one man in France not in love with his wife eluded D'Artagnan.

Finally unable to bear the disappointed hope in her youthful features, he moved slightly closer and gently brushed his hand over her hair, inhaling the intoxicating scent of lavender. Anne's spine suddenly straightened, and her head turned slightly, trying to find him in the darkness, but he was invisible.

"D'Artagnan," she breathed, such love and relief in her young voice, it took all the restraint in him to stop himself from taking her in his arms.

"You look beautiful, Anne," he whispered, his breath brushing her exposed nape. She fought to hide a shiver they both felt.

"It was all for you," she whispered back, a glorious smile on her face now. She was careful not to alert anyone to his presence behind her, hidden as he was by the night and by Caroline. "I have missed you so."

"And I you, Anne."

"These past few weeks have been a torment. Yet I cannot imagine what it has been like for you. You are unharmed?" she inquired quietly, her tone desperate.

"Yes, my lady. I am as hale and whole as when I left," he murmured. And it was true, in a way. He was physically whole and uninjured but his heart had been torn in two, a piece left here with her. He had missed her with an ache that had grown unbearable.

Anne kept her eyes on the dancers, as the fireworks were lit.

"That is good."

* * *

"Anne!" her husband's voice echoed across the dance floor. She cursed silently, as she felt D'Artagnan slide away from her, and her boorish husband glided towards her. She painted a false smile and moved out to meet him, as the first of the fireworks flew into the night sky, dancing amid the stars.

Suddenly she was thrown aside by Aramis, and into a protective circle of Musketeers, as she heard the sound of a gunshot and cries of alarm. Screams shredded the air, as Anne fought to see what had happened. She grabbed Aramis's shoulder and spun him to face her.

"What is it? What has happened?" she asked, above the din of the screams and the shouts of the men.

"An assassination attempt. Someone tried to shoot the King."

"The King…?" Anne started, horrified, but Aramis cut her off.

"Not the King." Aramis told her shortly, before he disappeared into the crowd of Musketeers. The circle of Musketeers parted like a stage curtain, and Anne finally saw what had happened.

It wasn't the King who had been shot. It was D'Artagnan.

* * *

He lay on the floor in front of the King, blood seeping from a wound to his right shoulder, as his eyelids fluttered weakly. Anne darted forward, towards her husband and her love, fear and dread flooding her being. What if the bullet had penetrated deep, or worse an internal organ such as a lung?

"My husband, are you unharmed?" she remembered to ask, her tone horrified, before she knelt by D'Artagnan.

"I am well, Anne. D'Artagnan has saved my life. Care for him," he commanded her. The other Musketeers crowded around to lift D'Artagnan, as Anne followed them, Caroline at her heels.

"Your Majesty, you should allow one of us to do that," Athos knelt by his friend's head, as Anne gently began removing his shirt. They had carried him to his room in the Musketeers' barracks, and Anne refused to leave his side.

"He saved my husband's life; it is the least I can do," she replied sternly, not taking her eyes off D'Artagnan's pale face. "I must control the bleeding until the physician arrives. Fetch me water and cloths,"

Aramis and a young Musketeer hurried off to do as she bid, whilst Porthos and Athos helped her take off the rest of D'Artagnan's shirt. Despite the desperate fear she felt for her lover, she couldn't fail to notice that D'Artagnan was extremely well-built and muscular. His skin was as pale as her own, but it was like silk over hot metal, tensile and as unbreakable as steel. Scars peppered the skin like brands, and she found herself wondering about their history. D'Artagnan stirred slightly under her touch, as Aramis returned with the cloths and the physician.

"What is happening?" Porthos asked, as Anne moved to sit by D'Artagnan's head, to make room for the physician. Aramis answered.

"The assassin has been killed whilst trying to escape. I guess we won't know his reasons now," he sighed.

Anne wrung out a cloth in the water bowl, and gently dabbed away the sweat on D'Artagnan's forehead, as the physician examined him. D'Artagnan stirred again; hissing in pain at the doctor's probing fingers.

"The shot went straight through; he'll live. We must keep the wound clean, otherwise it could lead to infection," the doctor finally looked up, delivering his verdict.

"Thank God." The Three Musketeers breathed a sigh of relief, only equal to Anne's, as she closed her eyes at the knowledge he was safe.

"The….the…." D'Artagnan's voice suddenly sounded in the tense room, and they all jumped at the hoarse tone. Aramis came to take his hand.

"The King is safe, D'Artagnan."

"Thanks to you," Anne breathed, smiling down at him. His eyes focussed blearily on her, as a relieved smile escaped his lips.

"My lady, you were not harmed?" he croaked, groaning slightly as the doctor applied a bandage to his wound, and began to wind a sling around his arm.

"No. But it is you we need to worry about, D'Artagnan," Anne assured him. A hand touched her shoulder.

"We should leave him to rest, Your Majesty," Aramis said with a respectful nod.

"Of course. I will come and check on you tomorrow," Anne said, with a regal nod. She could not legitimately stay with him without raising suspicion. She swept out gracefully, leaving D'Artagnan to the doctor and his friends.

* * *

That night, Anne paced up and down her chambers, dressed in a flimsy white robe and nightgown. The autumnal breeze filtered in through the open window, as Anne worried over her lover. Caroline had long since gone to bed. But Anne could not sleep. Finally with a shake of her head, she grabbed her cloak and slipped out of her rooms. As she tiptoed through the halls and corridors of the palace, she often had to duck out of sight of the Musketeers on guard. Thankfully she was light on her feet, and they did not see her, a shadow in the night. She thought over what excuse she would give to the others, should they still be with their friend, but in the end, she was the Queen. If she wished to visit the man who had saved her husband's life, and probably her own, then no one should stop her.

The door to D'Artagnan's room was ajar, the sounds of sleep echoing throughout the barracks as she crept through them, all the Musketeers either asleep or on guard around the grounds. She could hear what she guessed to be Porthos's deep snores and smiled. She poked her head into D'Artagnan's room, to find the fire still going, and a candle burning by his bed side. The doctor had left, as had Aramis and Athos, and D'Artagnan seemed deeply asleep, as she closed the door softly, and crossed to him. She sat down on the bed quietly, and flicked down her hood. And watched him as he slept.

His face was so youthful in sleep, all cares and worries forgotten in the peace of oblivion. A lock of his dark hair had fallen over his face, and she reached out a hand to tuck it back. D'Artagnan's good hand shot up and snared her wrist, his eyes snapping open. With a glimmer of shock in those orbs, he recognised her.

"Anne!" he breathed, releasing her wrist, as he levered himself up in bed.

"What are you doing here?"

"I couldn't bear to wait. I couldn't bear not knowing if you were alright. I had to come," she whispered. D'Artagnan's expression softened.

"It was foolish. If anyone saw you, or finds you here…." he trailed off, when Anne looked down, and a single tear escaped her. "Oh, Anne."

With his good arm, he pulled her forward into an embrace, holding her against him. Anne started at the feel of his warm, naked chest against her for a moment, before she relaxed with a sigh of bliss.

"I thought you would die. For one terrible moment, I thought I would lose you," she whispered, her agony and fear escaping her in waves. D'Artagnan hushed her, stroking her back soothingly.

"It's alright, Anne. I am still very much alive," and didn't he know it. The weight of Anne's soft curves against his body was torture. He planted a chaste kiss on her raven hair, breathing in her lavender scent with relief. After so many days of the stench of death and war, her scent was like heaven. Anne raised her head, and her gaze fell on his lips. "Anne….we cannot," he said warningly, but in his weakened condition, he was trapped between her and the headboard.

"Let a Queen show her gratitude for the man who saved her husband's life. D'Artagnan…." Anne lips boldly fell to his, tentatively brushing a kiss across them. He couldn't resist any longer.

D'Artagnan's good arm twined around her waist, as he sat up, and pulled Anne closer to him. Her hands drifted up his bare chest to his neck, twining her arms around his neck. Anne kissed like a novice, and he suspected she was more of an innocent than he had known, so he reined in the frenzied passion that had awakened at her touch, and settled to giving her gentle pleasure. He gently parted her lips, to tease her lightly with his mouth, sampling all he could never have. Anne moaned and sank against him, pressing herself closer. She had wanted this for so long, and she wished the moment would never end. D'Artagnan's hand crept into her hair, savouring the silken, jetty waves, relishing their smoothness. They slid down, over the curve of her chin to her neck, caressing the heating, soft skin. Anne's hands suddenly left his neck to twine with his hair, her fingers curving around his skull. At the rush of fiery desire that swept through him, leaving him shaking, D'Artagnan broke the kiss.

"Anne…" she cut him off again. She was a quick learner. D'Artagnan moaned into her mouth, before he found the strength to break free from this siren of the night. "Anne, we cannot,"

"I know. I know. I'm sorry," she breathed, her breasts pressing against him with each shallow exhalation. "I wanted, just once, to see what it felt like,"

"Well now you know." D'Artagnan said shortly, still fighting the urges coursing through him. "But we cannot do this, not ever. It is treason."

"Then we will both die traitors, D'Artagnan," she breathed against his lips, her eyes filled with invitation. Invitation D'Artagnan could not resist. Their lips fused again, with greater passion, all their months together culminating in this one embrace. But then a noise echoed outside his room, as D'Artagnan released Anne.

"Go. Go now. I will find you tomorrow," he promised her, as she slipped out of the door with one final glance. Her 'Goodnight' came as a whispered siren call on the night breeze. D'Artagnan slumped back, the warmth of her lips still lingering on his.

Anne regained her bedroom, and slipped into bed, her heart jumping wildly from D'Artagnan's kiss. This would be a night she would never forget.


	3. Chapter 3

A Rose By Any Other Name Would Still Smell As Sweet

* * *

Sunlight dawned the morning after the assassination attempt, and Anne rose early. She dressed quickly, but before she could go to her lover, she had to first fulfil the duties of the household. The tedium of deciding the menus and the arrangements for any foreign dignitaries, not to mention the endless round of entertainments the King so enjoyed, grated on Anne's temper, as she stifled yawns whilst poring over stacks of lists and parchment, the Palace housekeeper by her side. Finally after what seemed like hours, the housekeeper departed with a curtsey, and Anne looked towards the ornate clock on her mantelpiece. It was just past ten o'clock; if D'Artagnan had obeyed his doctor's orders, he would not have arisen yet. Sighing, Anne smoothed her skirts and stood, intending to visit the chapel for her devotions. Caroline unbent her stiff legs and followed.

* * *

The chapel was drenched in sunlight, the door reflecting golden patinas in their panels. She glided into the cool interior, the sweat on her brow drying in the chilly room. She went forward, into the shadowy recess, and sure enough on the pew, was the rose from D'Artagnan. She smiled fondly and made a mental note to berate him for leaving his bed early, against the doctor's orders. If he had any sense he would've returned to it quickly. She sighed and knelt, her eyes closing in prayer, as she remembered the events of the last night.

His lips on hers, his strength enveloping her, holding her in thrall. The feel, the taste, the sound of him as they had kissed for the first time. She had sensed an underlying passion in him, wild and untamed yet tender. She yearned to set it free, as she sensed she had the power to do. All thoughts of danger or treason had fled from her mind; she was so happy and exultant in the knowledge that he did love her, and that he could not fight it anymore than she could.

She heard footsteps behind her, but she did not turn. It was probably just Caroline. But then she heard a second pair of footsteps, as the doors to the chapel closed and a familiar scent filled the room. Anne's eyes opened, anticipatory shivers racking her spine.

"Caroline?" she called, turning her head slightly.

A hand brushed her neck, gentle and familiar, the heat in the tips of his fingers playing havoc with her breathing. Every sense zeroed in upon him; she was deaf, dumb and blind to all else.

"Not Caroline, my lady," he whispered, his voice a soft growl.

"D'Artagnan." Anne sighed his name, before she turned her head fully to face him. His fingers traced the line of her chin, before drifting up the line of her cheek. Anne brushed a kiss over his fingertips, smiling gently, leaning into his touch. His palm cupped her cheek, and she held his hand to her face, her eyes closing in bliss.

"Anne…." D'Artagnan said warningly. Anne ignored the warning in his tone, her eyes rising to his, her lips parting. D'Artagnan sighed exasperatedly but he could not resist bending his head and brushing her lips with his. He had not intended to repeat the debacle of last night, but he could not fight his own compulsion, yet alone the invitation in Anne's eyes. She wanted it as much as he.

Anne's hand went around his neck, holding him to her, as their lips brushed, moulded and then locked as one, their tongues taunting each other. When they finally broke apart, breathless, her eyes narrowed as she took in his appearance. Apart from his right arm, which was bound in a sling, he was dressed in his uniform, the black and silver of the Musketeers distinctive in the golden chapel.

"You should still be in bed," she said, mock-seriously, one eyebrow cocked.

"Would you have preferred it if I hadn't come?" he asked solemnly, playing along with her joke. But her eyes widened in horror.

"Oh, no! I-I wanted you to come, even though I knew I shouldn't, and you w-were wounded….." D'Artagnan cut her off with a kiss so fiery; whatever Anne had thought to say was wiped away, by the molten lava in her veins. Her hand grazed his shoulder, and she felt his wince as he released her. "Is it very painful?" she asked, concern in her jewel-like eyes.

"Not much," D'Artagnan said through gritted teeth. Anne looked up at him through undeceived eyes.

"You never were a good liar, D'Artagnan. Not to me," she breathed, her hand curving around his face, a fond smile on her lips.

"I suppose not," he smiled back. But then it faded, as he remembered what he had come to fetch her for. "The King is looking for you. He desires your presence,"

"What for?" Anne asked, confused. Other than at State banquets and balls, the King never had Anne by his side.

"Presumably for the audience he has bestowed upon me for saving his life yesterday."

"Very well, then. I must go. I will see you soon," she nodded her proud head. D'Artagnan helped her to rise, and she preceded him up the chapel, her skirts shushing sibilantly in the gloom.

* * *

The throne room of Versailles was filled to bursting, as D'Artagnan slowly walked down an aisle of Musketeers, their swords raised to the salute. He saw Aramis, Athos and Porthos at the far end of the hall, close by the throne, proud smiles on their faces. Anne sat by her husband, her flowing blue Robes of State glimmering in the sunlight. A smile was on her face, but her gaze was distant and proud, as it ought to be. She was the Queen, smiling benignly at the saviour of her husband, the King. She gave nothing of her true feelings away.

D'Artagnan knelt before the King, as Louis XIII promoted him to the rank of Lieutenant for his bravery, and appointed him the Queen's personal protector. His peers and superiors all smiled proudly, as one of the greatest of their number finally got what he deserved. Anne's smile was tinged with pride, at her lover, standing tall and strong before her husband. She welcomed the promotion, and the assignment as her bodyguard. It would be easier for them to spend time together now. Anne serenely inclined her head when the audience was over, her whole heart yearning to reach out and enfold him in her arms. But she had to play her role, had to let him go with his friends. Even though she didn't want to.

Because it was the only way their love could survive.

* * *

_A few weeks later…_

D'Artagnan sighed as he saddled his mount. He was accompanying Anne on one of their many rides together. They rode everyday, since his recovery from his wound, their love blossoming even as winter took its toll on the countryside. They would arrive back from their rides flush-faced and cold but exhilarated. D'Artagnan had showed her a hidden avenue where she could gallop as wildly as she wished. They often raced each other down the shaded path.

That day was surprisingly warm and dry for the beginning of winter, and the sun was sparkling in the sky. His grey stallion fidgeted as he waited. A moment later, Anne emerged from the palace in her deep green riding habit, and D'Artagnan had to fight to take a breath. With wintry sunlight haloing her figure, she looked like a forest nymph, her hair tumbling down her back informally. She smiled politely when she saw him, mindful of the prying eyes watching them. Her feisty black was brought forward and D'Artagnan helped her to mount. Anne fought to disguise the shivers that immediately ran down her spine at the touch, now so familiar, but yet so evocative. Her eyes flicked down to his, and her breath hitched. The heat in those beloved, sapphire eyes was doing odd things to the solidity of her spine. Neither spoke as they turned their mounts' head and trotted out of the stable yard.

Anne was achingly aware of the large, silent, masculine figure riding beside her, deep in his own thoughts, his face unreadable. She concentrated on steering her horse as she spurred him into the gallop, swerving to the right as they passed through the entrance to the hidden avenue. Flashes of green and brown swept by, the song of the birds hushed in that quiet little world, where Summer yet retained its living presence. The path ran between two thick lines of yew trees, their thick, ancient trunks shielding the riders from unseen eyes, their bountiful branches still green in the weak sunshine. The path dragged on for three miles, before it petered out into a clearing, where a brook meandered its winding way through the royal estate. Anne could hear its gurgling music as they neared the clearing. Reining her mount in, she released an exhilarated breath, and tossed her wayward curls over her shoulder. D'Artagnan sat beside her, silent and brooding. Anne sighed and dismounted, tying her steed's reins around a tree branch. She walked away from her horse, and turned to find D'Artagnan watching her with an inscrutable expression on his face.

"D'Artagnan? What is it?" she asked, instantly going to him. He stopped her with an upraised hand.

"Your Majesty, we have to talk."

Anne's heart sank at his reverting to using her title.

"We need to face facts. This affair of ours has gone on too long; it a treasonous act against the King and France. We cannot continue this, my lady," D'Artagnan continued coldly, his eyes distant and shuttered. Anne felt the tears well up.

"You no longer want me," she breathed. It was not a question.

"No, my lady."

Anne rallied her courage, despite the misery slowly growing inside of her. Was she destined to remain unloved forever?

"Very well. But may I inquire as to why?" she said, fighting back her shuddering breath. She was beginning to tremble with sorrow, mixed with anger, and desolation.

"We are not good for one another. It is useless to yearn for something which will never happen. This is the best thing for the both of us," D'Artagnan answered, hating himself. But he had to set her free, even if it meant making her hate him. He had been called to the wars, along with the other Musketeers, and he and the other Inseparables had been assigned to the areas of the heaviest fighting. There was a good chance he might not return, and he did not wish to leave her grieving. But at the sight of her face, the tears valiantly fought back, shaking with emotion, he felt his own resolution crumble. "We should return, Your Majesty,"

Anne numbly mounted her horse. It took all of her years of training in the royal courts for her to avoid breaking down. She would not distress him by crying. He was right, and she could not condone subjecting him to the misery of loving someone he could not have, not if he had found another. She had no doubt that he had, or would. For the entire ride back, she did not look at him, nor speak to him. Her heart was breaking, and every breath she sensed leave his body swelled the agony. Very soon nothing would be left, except a pile of smouldering ashes. She would never stop loving him.

As she dismounted, she flicked one final glance at the man she loved so fiercely, and who she would now have to release. Without a word, or a glance, she walked away, her spin rigidly straight.

D'Artagnan watched Anne walk away, his heart torn into shreds at the agony he could see in her eyes. Her face revealed nothing. His very soul cried out in pain, condemning him for the lie he had told, the pain he was subjecting her, but even more for how easily she believed he no longer loved. He could not exist without her, but his words had been partly true. Their love was treasonous and sinful, their relationship a crime against King and country. He had to set her free. So he did nothing as Anne walked away from him, forever.

* * *

The next few weeks were torture for Anne. She had to go on being the Queen, parading on Louis's arm, when all she wished to do was to crawl beneath the covers of her bed and weep. But she went on, her smile falsely charming, as she died inside. Slowly, she stopped eating, stopped riding, stopped sleeping. She just existed. She had no reason to keep on living, now her only love had walked out of her life. Since she had stopped issuing from her rooms, there was no reason of D'Artagnan to protect her. She was safe enough on the short walk from her chambers to the chapel. There had been no more roses. To her, that truly was a sign that their love was dead.

She was numb that she did not notice the worried eyes that followed her. Caroline fussed over her mistress, wondering what change had brought on the dimmed eyes and the faded light in the Queen. D'Artagnan watched his love, noting that she grew thinner, how forced her laughter was, how little she stepped out of her rooms. It was breaking his heart, to keep his distance and to try to seem detached, but he had to do it, for her sake. The day he would leave for La Rochelle drew nearer and nearer.

One day, Anne was sitting at her window seat, gazing listlessly out of the palace, at the stormy, dark day outside. The grounds were empty of all except the Musketeers, patrolling as usual. Anne could see the occasional flashes of lightning in the distance, as the storm made its destructive way closer. She was invariably reminded of the day she had ridden out, during the storm, at the chateau. And the pain it brought, for that had been when it had all began.

"Oh my love…." She whispered, a single tear trailing down her cheek, as she leaned her forehead against the cool glass. Then she saw him.

* * *

D'Artagnan was patrolling the grounds, close to her rooms, and for a moment she allowed herself to gaze openly at his dark beauty, before she sighed, her heart heaving in pain. Then his piercing gaze flashed to the window where she sat, and Anne leaned back behind the curtain, safe in its folds. She often sat there, as the curtain afforded her some invisibility, so she could sit and watch the world without being watched herself. From behind the gold tassels, Anne was stunned by the look of agonized suffering on her former lover's face. His eyes seemed to penetrate her soul through the curtain, their depths clouded with longing and self-hatred. His strong frame was bowed, his face rigidly controlled, yet even as he gazed up at her window, she could see the love and devotion still burning in his eyes. She longed to move out from behind the curtain, and let him know that she saw through his façade, but her legs would not obey her. Her body felt as though it was contorting with pain and helplessness, yearning to reach out and soothe her love's pain, and being unable to do so.

And then a young Musketeer came running up to his Lieutenant with a message, and Anne watched as the shields came up, the shutters that once kept her out hiding all that was hidden in his heart. He turned away from her window, and Anne left her seat in a flash, her mind whirling. He had told her he no longer loved her, didn't he? So why this agony she saw in his face, why the longing and the love still burning for her to see? Why?

Perhaps he regretted his coldness? No, that couldn't be it. Anne felt like wringing her hands together, her grey skirts swirling around her feet as she walked, the severely cut gown not dissimilar to a nun's habit, where it not for the luxurious material it was made from. She paced from one wall of her chamber to another, trying to comprehend what she had just seen. _If_, she barely allowed herself to think the words, _he still loves me, why did he lie to me?_

But no answers came, as the storm marched nearer. Eventually Anne sat again at her window seat, but D'Artagnan had disappeared. She sighed and leaned against the glass once more.

"My lady?" Caroline's soft voice came outside her door, and Anne turned towards it.

"Come in, Caroline," she called, hiding her thoughts with difficulty. Her old confidant did not need to see her distress, since it would only worry her more. She had felt her old friend's concerned eyes on her for weeks. Caroline entered the room, and instantly saw the distraught expression in her young charge's eyes. Her face gave nothing away. Caroline crossed to kneel in front of her Queen, taking her hand gently.

"My lady, I have noticed how upset you have been for the past weeks, and I think I know why," she said simply. Anne and she were used to speaking plainly in private.

"Caroline-"

"D'Artagnan has told you he no longer loves you, has he not?" she asked bluntly, already knowing the answer to the question. She noticed Anne's glance toward the door. "The maids are at their luncheon, and I locked the door. We may speak plainly,"

"Caroline, I cannot speak of this." Anne replied quietly, a tear escaping her eye and falling onto her cheek.

"Very well then, but you will listen. Whatever he told you was a _lie_. He loves you as much now as he did three months ago. It does not take a simpleton to see it," Caroline said sternly.

"What do you mean? He told me he no longer wanted me, and he has kept his distance for weeks now. He does not love me," Anne shook her head sadly, her proud face crumpled with pain as she said the words. Caroline took her mistress's face in her wrinkled hands, and forced her to look into her eyes.

"My lady, he has been lying to you. I am sure his regard for you is as powerful now as it has ever been. You would only have to watch his face to see it,"

"I don't understand,"

"My lady, I have noticed you have been eating little, and riding less. Not only that, but you have become a recluse, never venturing further than the chapel. I have seen the longing in your face, as you have gazed out the window. My eyes have not been the only ones to see it." Caroline explained. Anne blushed and looked down at the plush carpet beneath her feet. "His eyes have followed you for days. I can see the concern in them as easily as I see your face now, my lady. You may not have noticed, but he has been shadowing your steps for days, watching you intensely. He still loves you, I am sure of it."

"But then why did he do this? Why, if he does not love me?" Anne asked her suddenly, her face blazing with passionate sorrow. Caroline shook her head.

"I have only just learnt this, but there is a reason behind his madness, my lady. In a few weeks, the King will send a garrison of Musketeers to the front line at La Rochelle. The casualties have been high there, and it seems new replacements are needed desperately. D'Artagnan has been selected to go, along with the _Inseparables_, Madame. That is why he made you believe his affections had died, so as to shield you from grief if he should not return! He was trying to protect you, my lady!" Caroline told her, squeezing her hand comfortingly at the dawning realisation in Anne's face.

"Oh that insufferable man! Why did he not tell me?" Anne exploded, standing up in her distress. Her heart hurt with the revelations it was suffering, barely daring to hope, lest it should be disappointed. She began to pace again, thinking hard. "Are you sure of this, Caroline?" she eventually turned to her companion, hope and desperation merging into one emotion in her tearful eyes.

"Yes, my lady." Caroline answered firmly.

"But then why….?" Anne threw her hands up in defeat. "Aaargh! I need to think, but I can barely see past all the thoughts whirling through my brain!"

Anne turned to the window, and felt an idea take shape. She had not been riding for weeks. "I am going for a ride,"

"But my lady, the storm-"

"It is still miles away. I shall be fine. I need the air to think," Anne said briskly, already turning to her wardrobe to fetch her gloves. She didn't stop to change into her riding habit, Caroline clucking disapprovingly behind her.

"This is suicide!"

Anne ignored her, as she slipped into her riding boots.

"I shall summon Lieutenant D'Artagnan, my lady," Caroline turned to the door.

"You will not. I can't see him right now, lest I end up strangling him!" Anne called, closing her wardrobe door with a thud. Caroline turned back to her.

"But my lady, who will protect you on your ride?" she asked, a plan already forming in her mind.

"I shall be fine. There are enough patrols of Musketeers to dissuade an assassin." Anne answered promptly. She slipped into her parlour and opened a secret panel in the wall.

"I shall leave unseen and unmissed. If anyone calls, tell them I am resting with a headache," she called as the door closed behind her. Caroline sighed at her impulsive mistress, and briskly walked out of the door. The child was senseless to ride out in the storm, unprotected. And the best man to safeguard her would be the man who loved her most. Nodding decisively, Caroline began to walk towards the Musketeers' compound.

* * *

Anne saddled and brought out her horse herself, as the grooms seemed to be asleep in the hay. _Or not_, she thought wryly, as a feminine shriek echoed from the main barn, where the horses' feed and hay were kept. Her black shook his mane, itching for a run after so many weeks inside. Anne let him have his head as she galloped away, into the park, leaving the palace far behind her. A sense of freedom assailed her; she threw her head back and laughed happily, for the first time in weeks. Her heart was still reeling, the wings of her soul fluttering weakly, praying for hope. But she was free, at last.

She cantered up an embankment, the horse easily managing the rocky terrain, as she cleared it, and swerved for the hidden avenue where she had once visited often with D'Artagnan. The memories of the stolen kisses and the hidden passion that had grown there sent shudders of desire through her veins. They had never taken the final step into complete intimacy, as they knew it was too dangerous. Louis occasionally came to her bed, out of duty's sake, and his visits were too unpredictable to risk being caught. The Musketeers' barracks were too crowded and far away from the palace, so they could not come and go unseen by someone. After D'Artagnan's promotion to Lieutenant, she had heard rumours that the King would give him a room within the palace, to better protect him and the Queen. But even then the risk of discovery would still be high, and so they'd had to rein in their passion for one another, burying it beneath the surface. But what of that passion now?

Anne could barely credit the possibility of Caroline's revelation being true, not when her heart was in alt at the prospect. She could barely think rationally, as it was.

A log had fallen across the entrance to the avenue, and Anne spurred her horse on, as he jumped and arched through the air. They cleared the log easily, and Anne slowed to a canter as they made their way towards the secret clearing. Perhaps there, she could think clearly, in the place where they had allowed their love free rein, letting it blossom, despite the danger. Suddenly her stallion reared and whinnied, its nostrils flaring in fear. Surprised, Anne lost her seat and toppled from the saddle, landing hard in the springy turf. The black stallion reared again and bolted, disappearing into the tree at a mad gallop. Anne got to her feet shakily, struggling to breathe, and saw what had caused her horse to rear in fear.

A man stood before her, pistol raised and ready, dressed in the clothes of a common farmer, where it not for the manicured fingernails and clean teeth he revealed as he leered at the Queen.

"Well, this was certainly easier than expected." The stranger's accent was decidedly English. "I don't even have to sneak into the palace."

"Who are you?" Anne demanded, fighting back the instinctive fear to rile at the man.

"That is none of your concern, woman. It is enough for you to know, you are facing your executioner," he drawled, an impudent smirk in his face.

"And what is my crime?" Anne asked, desperate to keep him talking. Surely if she delayed him long enough, someone would come looking for her. Over their heads, the storm broke, great crashes of thunder echoing from the heavens, the iron-grey clouds flashing with lightning, the wind rising in a mournful dirge. Anne hoped it wasn't an omen.

As another thunder crash smote her ears, she felt a familiar prickle of heat trail down her spine, and she knew who was the source of that warmth. Keeping still, she listened intently, for the quiet blowing of a horse, or footsteps, or even of breathing, but the avenue was silent, reverberating with the cacophony of the storm.

The assassin answered.

"Just for being the Queen of France. No hard feelings and all that," the man answered mockingly, his finger tightening on the trigger. Anne looked for some avenue of escape, but she was on foot, with no weapon, and an armed pistol being pointed at her chest. She was going to die, without ever seeing her beloved D'Artagnan again. She must have been mistaken; he could not have reached her here. No one knew she was out here, in the first place.

"D'Artagnan….." she whispered, a single tear trailing down her cheek. The assassin laughed cruelly.

"How like a woman! Are you going to beg and cry for mercy, as well?" he sneered, his aim steady on her heart.

"No, but you will be," a voice answered behind him, as a pistol went off. Anne flinched, expecting any moment to feel a lead ball tearing into her body. But the expected pain never came. She opened her eyes to find the assassin, unconscious and bleeding at her feet, his pistol still in his limp hand. Her eyes focussed on a pair of polished black boots, and travelled up.

Up the long, powerfully muscular legs, up the narrow hips and toned torso, hidden by the black tunic of the Musketeers, and further until she reached his eyes. Piercing blue orbs, filled with a wild desperation and fear, searching hers intently. Anne's breath came out on a sob.

"D'Artagnan!" she whispered, pain and need welling throughout her being, as she saw the love shining in his eyes.

"Anne!" he replied, and the pistol in his hand fell to the floor with a thud, as his arms opened. Anne rushed into them, as the storm raged above them.

* * *

D'Artagnan's mouth descended on hers, hot and fierce, as Anne had the life kissed out of her. His tongue slid into her mouth, and Anne sank against him, pressing her own urgent demands on him, taking as well as giving.

She was as hungry for him, as it seemed he was for her, and she took full advantage, her mind wiped clean as a slate. Her hands slid up his muscled arms and into his hair, feeling the damp strands between her fingers, the long waves falling to his collarbone. Her breasts pressed against him with each strangled breath she took, desire defying all rationale. He was, equally, as urgent and unthinking, as his hands slid around her waist, and up to her hair, relishing in the raven silk beneath his fingers, reassuring himself that she was alive by the pulse that beat hotly in her neck.

He had been filled with worry when Caroline, her companion and confidant, had come rushing into his room at the compound, to tell him Anne had taken off on her own. Fear had joined that emotion when her black stallion had returned without its rider, galloping past him as he rode into the park. He knew where she had gone, to their clearing, and so he had followed her. And seen the assassin pointing a pistol at her heart. He had wanted to rush in and tackle the man to the ground, but he'd quashed the primal urge, reminding himself that the assassin would have enough time to pull the trigger before he reached him.

So he had used the few minutes Anne had brought, to sneak up behind him and put a bullet in his shoulder, knocking him senseless with his fist a second later, relieving the savage need and fear that had risen up to choke him. Then he had laid eyes on Anne, and felt something give way within him. He could not fight any longer. So when she had opened her beautiful eyes, and looked at him with such yearning and need, he had simply opened his arms, and crushed her to him.

None of these thoughts entered his mind, as he felt the soft, yielding body in his arms, the common desire between them overriding caution, their fiery need to reassert their claim on one another too strong to fight. So strong that when he tumbled her to the ground, his hands supporting and crushing her beneath him, he barely noticed. He heard only the entreating moan that escaped her lips, as he wrenched from her mouth and kissed down her neck, his hands parting the high neck, so the soft and vulnerable flesh was his to feast upon. Her hands curled in his hair, her body arching beneath his.

The arm that lay beneath her waist pulled her up against his body, letting her feel the intense need, rigid against her abdomen. Their lips rejoined, desperately striving to appease each other's needs. Anne struggled to think beneath the mist of pleasure and desire enveloping them, fought to feel more than the hard body pressing down on hers, the vice-like arms around her, the hands exploring her form as they took what was theirs. Anne arched and moaned, tearing her lips from his, so she could look up into his face. He stilled, as they both breathed harshly, fighting for control. It wouldn't last for long.

* * *

"I-I thought you no longer loved me." Anne whispered, her voice a painful echo in the crescendo of the storm. D'Artagnan, brought up short, stared down at her, wondering how he could have ever tried to fight this.

"No. I have never loved anyone as much as I love you, my Anne. I was foolish to try to fight it, I thought I was protecting y-" he was cut off by her lips on his, effectively distracting him. It was the first time he had ever told her he loved her. When they drew apart, she sighed as her heart unlocked itself.

"I know about the assignment to La Rochelle," she whispered.

"How?" his brow furrowed with confusion and concern. It was not common knowledge amongst any but the Musketeer officers, the King and his Council.

"Caroline found out somehow."

"She knows about us?"

"Yes," Anne had to lick her dry lips, swollen by his kiss, and saw his eyes darken with desire, his weight still pressing her into the ground. "She has always known. She is trustworthy, D'Artagnan. She has helped me numerous times and she will not betray us. She has no love for Louis,"

A moment later their control broke, and D'Artagnan's lips fell to her neck, nuzzling the hot vein winding down the silken column. Anne fought for control.

"I thought you said you no longer wanted me," she breathed out painfully. He raised smouldering blue eyes to hers.

"I don't want you, Anne, not anymore," her heart sank, but then soared in joy as he continued, "I _need_ you, with every inch of my soul. My heart beats only for you, my love. My one love,"

"My love," Anne gasped, as his hand slid from the small of her back to her waist, following the line of her sternum, fingers trailing briefly over exposed skin at her neck. "I had thought you had found another more worthy of your love,"

"Never. I desire no-one but you, and you alone," he growled, before their lips brushed again, moulding together as one. Anne felt the heat at the base of her spin begin to coalesce, as their passion grew, the storm breaking over their heads, the first raindrops just beginning to fall. Anne barely felt them, as they fell onto her forehead, so immersed was she in the fire of the love, their love, that surrounded them.

* * *

"D'Artagnan!"

"Lieutenant!"

"D'Artagnan! Where are you?"

"D'Artagnan!"

"Your Majesty? Your Majesty?"

* * *

The shouts echoed across the clearing, drawing closer, and they punctured the bubble of passion that bound the couple on the floor, limbs entwined and lips still locked. D'Artagnan gently broke from her mouth, releasing her slightly. Anne desperately fought to breathe, pressed as she was beneath him. He looked down into her eyes and cursed.

Her eyes were alive with desire, radiant with the fire that threatened to consume them, even now, beguilingly soft and tender. The temptation was becoming too hard to fight. Before he lost all control, he levered himself off of her, and helped her sit up.

"That will be Athos, Porthos and Aramis. They will have been alerted to my disappearance now,"

Disappointment and resignation were evident in Anne's angelic face, as she scrambled to her feet in a very unQueen-like manner. D'Artagnan couldn't resist bending his head and brushing one last kiss across her lips. Her arms twined around his neck, pulling him closer for one moment, before they released one another.

"We will talk later?" she asked uncertainly.

"Yes. Midnight at the chapel, my lady," he replied after a moment's thought. He held her close, kissing her hair before letting her go and turning the assassin.

"D'Artagnan!"

"Here Aramis! No need to shout!" D'Artagnan called. In the few moments before they were found, Anne frantically smoothed her skirts and straightened her bodice. D'Artagnan couldn't hold back a smirk, one Anne intercepted and sent him a glare. Noticing how wet she was becoming, he threw her his long Musketeer's tunic, and she swung it around her shoulders gratefully.

Aramis's tall figure appeared through the mist of rain, Athos and Porthos.

"Thank God, D'Artagnan. Is the Queen with you?" he asked. Anne moved out from behind her lover, regally gliding forward. Relief passed across the faces of all three men.

"I see the fun's over. What happened?" Athos nodded to the assassin on the ground, still miraculously unconscious.

"An assassination attempt on the Queen," D'Artagnan said shortly. Aramis's face turned grave.

"We should get out of this area, Your Majesty, in case there are any more lurking around," he said. Anne nodded briskly, and she walked ahead of him out of the clearing. Porthos turned to D'Artagnan.

"You go with her, D'Artagnan. We will search the area and bring in this pile of hor-"

Porthos's remark was interrupted by a violently cleared throat, as Athos indicated the continued presence of the Queen. Porthos shut up abruptly.

There were only four horses waiting for them, D'Artagnan's horse and the three others. D'Artagnan helped Anne to mount his, then climbed up behind her, sliding one arm around her waist to hold her in position, guarded by his body. Aramis followed as they turned and began to trot back to the palace.


	4. Chapter 4

A Rose By Any Other Name Would Still Smell As Sweet

* * *

D'Artagnan paced the chapel impatiently, the lit candles flickering around him. Footsteps sounded outside the doors, and he ducked behind a pillar as the footsteps drew nearer, accompanied by the sibilant _swish_ of silken skirts. The step was decidedly light, indicating little weight, graceful and measured in its steps. A woman's gait, he thought, listening intently. A moment later, Anne appeared in the aisle, her long hair loose down her back, breathing heavily in her haste. Her slender figure was encased in black silk, so she blended in with the night. D'Artagnan breathed in the scent of her perfume in deep, mixing with the exquisite fragrance of the rose he held, having pilfered it from the gardens earlier. With a surge of relief, he noted she seemed to have taken no lasting harm from her encounter with the assassin.

After they had returned to the palace, Anne had been swept away by her ladies-in-waiting, whilst Aramis and he were summoned to make a complete report before the Musketeer Captain, De Treville, and the King himself. It had been a trying afternoon, only relieved when Athos and Porthos arrived back to report there were no more assassins in the area, aside from the prisoner they had in tow. He was, no doubt, undergoing rigorous interrogation in the Bastille.

"Are you there?" he heard Anne call softly, phrased so none could tell who she was calling to. It drew him from his reverie, and he stepped from behind the pillar, moving soundlessly towards her.

Anne jumped as a hand came around her waist, pulling her back against a very familiar and a very well-toned chest. She relaxed into her lover's arms, leaning her head back on his collarbone.

"D'Artagnan…" her whispered sigh shivered in the air. She breathed out shakily, contented.

"You were not harmed?" D'Artagnan's gravelly baritone asked from behind and above her.

"No. Thanks to you," she replied, twisting around in his arms to face him. She planted a soft kiss on his lips, which he returned, his locked muscles holding back the driving passion that threatened to consume them both. They had come so close in the clearing, it has almost been frightening. But this kiss was sweet, slow, brought forth from the magic of touching and being touched. Nothing more. When they broke it, Anne leaned her head against his chest, revelling in the warm, steely arms enfolding her in his safe embrace.

"I'm sorry it took me so long," Anne whispered.

"I thought you would not come-" D'Artagnan replied, pain and relief slipping into his tones, before he realised. Anne raised her head to look at him.

"Caroline would not let me go so easily. She thinks you're a God now, by the way, for saving my life. She is also extremely unrepentant about disobeying her Queen, and going to fetch you," she added with a wry smile.

"It was a good thing she did. Anne, in that clearing-" D'Artagnan stopped, unable to continue, holding Anne to him, stroking her soft hair.

"I know, I know. I thought I would never see you again. I'd thought you were there, that you had found me, but then I believed it as a mere fantasy," Anne replied, shaking ever so slightly at the remembered terror, that she would never see her beloved again.

"Hush, my love. It is over," D'Artagnan kissed her gently, stroking her curls back from her face. Anne shivered, desire rising but held ruthlessly at bay. D'Artagnan looked down at her concernedly. "Are you cold?"

She laughed a little at this. "No my dearest. I shiver at you calling me your love. It seems like a fairytale," she whispered, a gentle smile on her lips. He smiled back and leaned in for another kiss, more passionate this time, their mouths locked together as one, exploring each other greedily. They both knew it could never last, that theirs was a forbidden love, one that would lead to death for both of them if it were discovered. So they stole what time they could, taking their time, drawing all the pleasure from each caress of their lips. Anne's hand twined with his hair, curling over his skull, as he snatched her closer. A distant church bell tolled, signalling the time. D'Artagnan drew back with a sigh. They were in danger, if they stayed for much longer. One of the patrols would be sure to see the lights in the chapel and investigate.

"It's past one, we should return to the Palace, Anne," he whispered, a regretful smile in his expressive eyes. He wanted nothing more than to stay there forever with her.

"I know. Come then," she sighed, equal regret in her eyes, as they disengaged from each other's arms and left the chapel.

* * *

Outside the grounds were bathed in silvery moonlight, deserted except for the owls that swooped, flying to their hunting grounds in the meadows and forests of the Palace. D'Artagnan held out his hand to Anne, and drew her against his side, one arm around her waist, his other hand gripping hers.

"I'll see you back to your room," he said. Anne said nothing, merely existed in some kind of dreamland as they walked slowly amid the roses, unspeaking, but perfectly content. Indeed, she had never felt so simply happy in her entire life. She never wanted it to end. But it ended all too soon, and Anne sighed sadly when they reached the rear door of the Palace. From there she could reach her rooms via the secret passages, one of which was in a side corridor, before the main staircase.

She turned to her lover, clutching the rose he had given her close, one hand lingering on his cheek.

"Goodnight, my love," she tilted her head, offering her lips. His mouth pressed down on hers, hungry and filled with fire, which she returned wholeheartedly, before he drew away, all too soon.

"Goodnight, my Anne," he whispered against her lips, taking them one last time, before he let her go. She kissed his cheek and slipped inside. With a sigh, D'Artagnan turned into the darkness, his black uniform tunic blending seamlessly into the night, as he headed for the Musketeers' barracks. No doubt Athos, Porthos and Aramis would be waiting for him with a keg of wine handy. He shook his head wearily and fondly.

Anne made it back to her room without incident, and slipped inside her bedchamber. Apart from the fire, the room was in darkness, her nightgown shimmering on her bed like a ghost. She undressed quickly, not even bothering to brush her hair, before she scrambled into bed, drew the covers over her body, and held D'Artagnan's rose to her face. The fragrant petals were like satin against her skin, the intoxicating scent wreathing her senses, and followed her deep into her dreams, dreams of another life, one she could never have.

* * *

_A few weeks later….._

D'Artagnan left the Musketeers' compound, saddled his grey and rode out. He was accompanying Anne on one of her many rides again, now the threat of assassination seemed to have passed, and her escort was decreased down to one. Not that the threat of assassination ever truly ceased, that he knew too well. But he also knew he could, and would, protect her with his life.

His departure to La Rochelle had also been delayed, due to a victory on the battlefield. Anne hadn't been able to hide her happiness when he told her. He could see the light in her eyes.

So their stolen moments of happiness could continue, uninterrupted, as their love continued to blossom. Long rides, in which they did nothing but talk, laughing and joking with ease, the occasional walk in the moonlight, shared kisses in the chapel or the grounds. Outwardly, they were protector and Queen, nothing more. Never once in public did they allow their affection for one another show, knowing that the eyes of the gossipmongers would latch onto the sight like flies to a corpse. If they spoke in public, it was distant and formal, the Queen keeping her eyes averted, and D'Artagnan showing nothing but respect for his Queen. No one would see through their mask, for it was as impenetrable as iron.

Dragging his mind back into the present, D'Artagnan sighted Anne, atop her black stallion, her long hair restrained today into a chignon, her dress a waterfall of cerulean blue silks. Apart from a gold cross around her neck and gold drops in her ears, she was unadorned, and yet her simplistic beauty was all the more powerful for it, unlike the overly perfumed, over-dressed, bejewelled peacocks of the Court. He knew which one he would choose any day. She offered him a distant smile and a haughty nod before they wheeled their mounts and trotted out of the stable yard. As soon as they were out of sight of the yard, they spurred their mounts into a gallop, quickly disappearing into the woods of Versailles. The sky was overcast and gloomy, yet there was no wind. D'Artagnan suspected they would have rain later.

They galloped through the emerald woods, both filled with a desperate need to leave the Palace, and their social masks behind. They crested a small hill, and reined in, their horses panting hard with the run.

Anne's eyes met his, and he took her reins in one hand, reached over with the other and pulled her into his saddle. She sat on his lap, her hands already sliding up his lapels and into his hair as their lips met with a fervent need. It had been a week since they had last kissed, due to Anne being busy with preparations for the Christmas celebrations, including a masque and a hunt the day after Christmas day. But none of this stress even entered Anne's mind as she sank into her lover's arms, delighting in the steely strength holding her steady, the practised slide and glide of their tongues as they duelled, so comfortable and familiar. They fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. They felt it as a wrench in both their souls when they finally ended the kiss, breathing as heavily as their mounts, when they drew back, to look into one another's eyes. D'Artagnan kissed her forehead, and held her close for one moment, before he deposited her back in her own saddle. Anne dismounted, and felt the warmth of the sun on her skin. She tied her horse's reins to a branch, and stood in the centre of the clearing of trees atop the hill, like a leafy crown on a grassy head. She flung her hands out, eyes closed in bliss at the warmth. The sun had not been seen for so long in the depths of winter, Anne had wondered if she would ever see it again.

D'Artagnan watched his love as she stood, arms outstretched in the centre of the clearing, staggered anew by her beauty. Her hair shone in the sun, raising its head from its gloomy bed, her form haloed in a nimbus of golden light, making her seem like an Angel descended from heaven.

"Ahh the sun. I thought I would never again feel its warmth in this chill," she sighed, her arms lowering. She opened her eyes and saw her lover watching her, concealed in the shadows. He was undeniably handsome, his black tunic draping his strong arms and legs in striking contrast to his pale skin and dark hair. His sapphire eyes twinkled in his sensually attractive face, a face Anne could stare at for hours on end. He was her Angel in the darkness, giving her warmth and light in the lonely existence she had been assigned. "Come, let us sit here,"

Anne sat on the springy turf, spreading her skirts like a pool of water around a river nymph. D'Artagnan hesitantly followed suite, unsure if sitting beside his beautiful and alluring lover on a grassy hill would be a good idea. A moment later, she relaxed back onto the grass, cushioned by D'Artagnan's cloak. His arm came around her shoulders, cradling her against his side, one hand splayed over his heart. His fingers played with her hair absentmindedly, as they lay together in the sun. Anne stirred beneath his touch.

"How are you, my darling?" she asked, her eyes on his. He frowned at her, puzzled.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"It's just…..there is so little time for moments like this. I barely know anything about you, or the life you lead. I'm….." she tried to explain.

"Curious?"

Anne blushed, but nodded.

"Well it has been a busy week. The assignment to La Rochelle is back on, I am afraid, but the fighting has alleviated slightly. Porthos is somewhat ambivalent; he yearns for the action, but he is busy courting a rich widow, Marianne Du Vallon. Aramis is also torn; he wishes to enter the priesthood but feels unable to do so whilst the war still rages and there is no heir to the throne….." D'Artagnan trailed off, cursing his stupidity. How could he be so insensitive! But Anne merely continued tracing the Musketeer crest on his lapel.

"Go on. How is Athos?" she asked. D'Artagnan, grateful for her wish to overlook his slip, continued.

"He is well. His wife, Celeste, is pregnant with their first child. He is rather torn. I have never seen him so divided between his duty and his life outside the Musketeers,"

"Maybe he should retire," Anne suggested, feeling D'Artagnan shake his head.

"No, he won't. Not yet, anyway," he sighed, his thumb stroking up and down Anne's shoulder soothingly. "How do your plans go, for the Christmas festivities?"

And so the conversation went back and forth, talking as a man and wife would, forgetting their danger. A danger that was all too real.

* * *

Voices reached them at that moment, and the realisation of danger had D'Artagnan upright and moving in a second. She pulled Anne to her feet, and grabbed their horses' heads, leading them into the trees. Hoof beats drew nearer, as the voices became clearer, and with a thrill of fear, Anne heard her husband's voice, as well as a coquettishly giggling soprano voice. The King and one of his Mistresses, no doubt.

Securing the horses to a tree, D'Artagnan took Anne by the waist, swinging her back against a tree trunk. In the clearing, only a few yards distant, the King and his mistress dismounted, strolling hand in hand to take in the same view Anne and her lover had been enjoying not a few moments ago.

Anne felt as though the sound of her heart throbbing in her breast would surely give them away. She was pressed between D'Artagnan and the trunk, her breathing strained and frantic as she looked towards the clearing. She could hear sounds of a clandestine meeting taking place, but she felt no pain, as she looked up at her lover's face. Her gaze fixed on his lips, just in front of her own, turned slightly to the side as he watched for signs of the King leaving. When his piercing blue eyes turned to hers, they were filled with pity and compassion, but Anne did not need it. Louis could have whomever he wanted; she did not need him. Not while she had D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan saw the desire flare in her eyes, and cursed silently. But he couldn't resist as he bent his head and set his lips to hers. He was achingly aware of the danger they were in, danger of discovery waxing stronger every minute. But judging by the noises echoing from the clearing; the King was somewhat preoccupied.

Anne opened her mouth instantly, inviting him in, letting the wildfire of their love free. Her lover's hands tightened around her waist, she could sense him withdraw, but she grabbed him and kissed him, uncaring about their danger. Heat flooded her, his and hers, need building in that little copse of trees, the only thing keeping them safe from discovery.

Desire and passion waxed amongst the trees, the danger adding a spice to it. Anne and D'Artagnan just existed; trapped in their own little world, as he pressed her back into the tree trunk, the rough bark rubbing her skin through the silk. She levered herself up in his arms, crushing him against her, as the sound of hoof beats echoed in the clearing. Whatever the King had been doing, he seemed he was now retreating. Fighting free of the desire, D'Artagnan raised his head.

"That was too close, Anne. We should return to the Palace," he growled out, his voice made hoarse by desire. Anne looked up at him, his sapphire eyes burning, and felt something shiver through her.

"Yes. I still need to complete the final preparations for the Christmas celebration," she sighed, as he released her and they walked to their horses, amazingly quiet throughout the entire incident.

"Heaven forbid you not decide the colour schemes for the table settings!" D'Artagnan's acerbic, gently teasing comment had her gently swatting him with her gloved hand. As he went to help her mount, she twisted around in his arms and placed a teasing kiss on his lips.

"Yes, heaven forbid," she murmured, before she turned back to the saddle.


	5. Chapter 5

A Rose By Any Other Name Would Still Smell As Sweet

* * *

_1662, the Court of Versailles, Paris_

"_So what happened next?"_

_Porthos's question brought Anne out of her memories, as she turned wide eyes on him. Aramis leant over and swatted Porthos over the head. Anne raised one eyebrow, inwardly shaking her head fondly. _

"_All you need to know is that Philippe and Louis were conceived on October 20th, 1640, just before the four of you left for La Rochelle. After he returned, and my pregnancy became known our interaction lessened day after day. D'Artagnan knew the child was his, but I knew he could not bear the pain of being forced to watch his child claimed by Louis, so we stopped our affair. We barely spoke or touched for twenty three years after that, until I received a letter from the prison where Philippe was held, telling me my son was dead. That night, I ran to the chapel, to beg for forgiveness, and D'Artagnan found me there. And…" Anne trailed off, her grief beginning to rise, as tears began to well, when she remembered that night and the last night D'Artagnan had left a rose for her, in the gardens outside the chapel._

"_Mother, you don't…" Philippe began, but Anne put up her hand._

"_No, my son. It's alright. It is just difficult…but our story ended two nights ago, when D'Artagnan bade farewell to me before riding to the Bastille. That was the last time I saw him alive," she finished blankly, staring once more into the flames. The clock chimed on the mantelpiece; it was a quarter to one. "If you don't mind gentlemen, I will retire now."_

"_Of course, Your Majesty," Aramis said immediately, rising. He bowed, as Athos and Porthos copied his movement, and left. Philippe watched his mother, a troubled expression on his face._

"_What is it, Philippe?" she asked, feeling his scrutiny, her eyes fixed on the flames._

"_I'm sorry, Mother. I could never have imagined…"_

"_My son, I must ask you not to…please…"Anne could feel her control slipping. A moment later she felt his hand gripping her shoulder, just once, before there came the sound of a door shutting softly. Anne's eyes closed, pain filling her, as her grief at last broke free._

* * *

_Versailles, Paris 1640_

Anne could only stare out her window at the parade of men in military uniform, pikestaffs in the air, muskets slung across their backs, swords at their sides. Her husband rode out on his bay charger, going to the front at La Rochelle to rally the troops' spirits. Anne was glad of it; a Palace without Louis was a happier one for her. But it meant that soon her beloved D'Artagnan would be sent to war, and who knew if he would return. Her confidant, Caroline, had just left her, to try to find out more. All she could do was wait.

Two days later, Anne still waited for more news. D'Artagnan was so busy with his preparations to leave, she barely saw him. But she waited patiently.

A week later the Musketeers still hadn't left. Anne could only carry on with her duties as Queen, forced to hide her true feelings every time she saw her love, forced to hide all the desperate love and fear she felt at the prospect of him leaving her.

On a rainy, cloudy October evening, Anne sat by her window, after having just performed her devotions in the chapel. She'd been partially comforted by the single red rose that habitually awaited her on the pew, gleaming scarlet and emerald in the soft light of the candles. Her mind was lost in dream wanderings; of an innocent time spent in a French chateau, with the love of her life. A tear of longing slipped down her face.

"Anne?"

At the excessively gentle, husky voice, the young Queen froze. She turned ever so slowly, pivoting round in her seat to meet the dark eyes of her lover, resplendent in his Musketeers' uniform, handsome and austere in the gentle candlelight of her bed chamber.

"D'Artagnan? But how did-?" Anne began to ask, rising to go to him, but D'Artagnan raised his hand to stop her.

"The secret passages. Treville showed them to me shortly before his retirement. Anne…." D'Artagnan trailed off uncertainly, as she got to her feet and walked to stand in front of him. She read the expression of both pain and sorrow in his face, her mind instantly guessing what he had come to her about.

"You're leaving Versailles, aren't you?" she asked, her voice deadly quiet, fighting to retain her control. D'Artagnan nodded.

"Yes. Anne," at this he took hold of her hands and held them to his chest, over the space where his heart beat, gazing at her beauty. "I love you. I will always love you, until the day I die."

Anne frowned. "D'Artagnan, why-?"

"Anne, please let me get this out," he begged her, dark eyes soft, as they gazed at her gleaming raven hair and the soft, loving form concealed in cream silk. "I wanted to make sure-"

"You're not saying goodbye?" Anne asked in a small voice, a single tear joining the other one that had tracked down her cheek earlier.

"Anne….."

"D'Artagnan, please, don't say goodbye," she begged, snatching her hands out from under his grip to frame his face. Her breath accelerating, her gaze dropped to his lips. He and his friends were facing death and carnage in La Rochelle, and this might be the last time she ever saw him again. In that second, months of restraint and caution flew out the window, as their gazes met, and understanding flew between them.

Anne stretched up on her toes, her hand sliding around to back of his neck, beneath his hair, as her lips brushed his, his hands lying around her waist.

* * *

"I love you," was the bare whisper before she kissed him wildly, deeply, uncontrollably. Her need for him was acute to the point of pain; spiced by the fear of discovery, and tempered by the unknown future that awaited them on the horizon, as threatening as the storm clouds that massed outside her windows. This was their best opportunity; Louis was away at the wars, his friends were busy with their own preparations for war, and her maids and confidant were gone to bed. They could spend one night in safety, and Anne did not intend to waste this opportunity. Not for anyone or anything. Not for the thought that this was treason, one that could kill them both if it were discovered. Not for anything.

None of this crossed Anne's mind as she pulled herself closer, her mouth open to his, inciting his wildest desire, as his arms became a steel cage around her, hauling her to him. But D'Artagnan's cautious side still had some sway, and attempted to inject sanity back into the situation. He pulled back.

"No, Anne. This is-" he was cut off by Anne's lips on his own, effectively shutting him up, her hands twining with the strands of shining brown hair that covered them. The feel of her soft body against his was too much to resist; D'Artagnan returned the embrace with equal need, letting his heart rule his head for once.

Anne's hands slid down his chest, stopping at the fastenings of his tunic, trembling slightly as she broke the kiss to look down at them. Their collective breath was ragged and shallow after the prolonged kiss, and D'Artagnan's eyes burned with an inner fire when Anne's flicked her gaze back up to his. Slowly, never taking her eyes off his, she undid the fastenings, until the front gaped open. Her hands dropped to his sword belt, undoing the buckle quickly until it fell to the floor with a dull _thunk_.

Freed from restriction, she pushed his tunic off over his shoulders, followed by the coat beneath it, until he stood before her in boots, breeches and his shirt. Her eyes roamed the strong muscles revealed by the small opening at the top of the shirt, a view she had seen once before. At the look of wonder on Anne's face, he kissed her again, his lips quickly moving down her face to her neck. Anne gripped his shoulders, as his hands quickly dispensed with her hair pins, until her curls tumbled freely down her back. Her eyes rolled back as a moan of bliss escaped her lips, his hot, urgent mouth on her neck igniting fires beneath her skin.

The flames leapt higher as D'Artagnan quickly undid the pearl buttons that did up her bodice, Anne dropped her arms, eager to feel him, skin to skin. Her dress fell away, leaving her in her corset and chemise, shivering with need as the cool air of her bedchamber hit her, contrasting with the heat escaping from the two of them. All conscious thought had left them at this point; only need and its primal fulfilment remained.

Anne pushed D'Artagnan's shirt from his shoulders, revelling in the toned chest revealed to her. She splayed her hands over the tensed muscles, her fingers making no imprint of the stony skin. At the look of sensual wonder, D'Artagnan set his lips to hers again, pulling her back into the circle of his arms, as he hastily unlaced her corset, flinging it away from him, sliding his hands down, holding her against him. Anne gasped into their joined mouths, holding onto him as he lifted her off her feet, effortlessly held up by his strength, and walked towards her bed.

When he set her down, the communion of their mouths broken, she stared up at him, her mouth dry, and her body aching, as he stood within the v of her legs, seated on the bed as she was. She ran her hands up his chest wantonly, acting on unholy desires she'd fostered for years, sensing the tensing of his entire body, letting her know how much she affected him, how much he desired her. Their eyes locked, as D'Artagnan gently pushed Anne back into the soft comfort of her pillowed bed, sprawled over the silken covers, her raven curls scattered like the feathers of a raven's wing, contrasting against the white of her skin and chemise. Sensing his regard, Anne smiled mistily, any reticence or shyness she might've felt extinguished, melted by the flames evoked by D'Artagnan's ember-like gaze.

"D'Artagnan, please," she murmured, holding her hand up towards him. A second later, he joined her, inexorably slowly, letting her pull him down, their bodies flush against one another. Their lips rejoined, passion escalating as D'Artagnan's hands explored her body, tracing line of leg, breast and waist, screened by linen. Filled with the need to feel his skin on hers, with no more barriers, Anne boldly pulled her chemise over her head, baring herself completely to his touch and his gaze, her alabaster skin gilded by the soft candlelight. D'Artagnan paused, their breaths mingling, their now bare skin pressing against each other, from knee to breast, hearts thundering as one, eyes fixed upon one another.

"You're so beautiful. I love you so much," D'Artagnan kissed her, her hands splayed over his back, never wanting to let go. She arched under him, the feeling of him against her so intoxicating.

* * *

Their lovemaking degenerated into a heated battle of fiery caresses and urgently needy kisses. They could only cling to one another, together, bound as one; physically, mentally and spiritually, as the wave of their need burst over them, ripping them away from this world of cruelties and pain.

In that moment, they were not Queen and Musketeer. They were not Anne and D'Artagnan. They were not even true lovers. They were just a man and a woman, stripped to the bare truth of life and its affirmation.

The next morning, Anne awoke to the sight of a red rose on her pillow, as the four Inseparables rode out the palace gates, on their way to war and glory. Or death.


End file.
